Behind Blue Eyes
by Willow Edmond
Summary: One night as they are coming home from a movie, 16 year old Roman Reigns and his older and younger brother, almost hit someone running across the road. Who is this kid and why is he running across the road, barefoot, with no shirt in the middle of the night?
1. Chapter 1

Special thanks to Mitchy, who has been reading this to make sure my writing is coherent. Mistakes are still my fault, I wasn't asking her to fix mistakes, I was just asking her to make sure my writing was linear, not messed up. So, thank you, Mitchy, I appreciate it.

* * *

 **Chapter One**

{o}

The room was silent, save the sound of steady, even, breathing, and the faint hum of the air conditioner. If anyone besides the boy and the man were in the room, they would think the two of them were asleep, but they would be wrong because the boy was awake. He had been pretending to be asleep for the last hour, until he was sure the man was in a sound sleep.

Slowly and carefully he started to get into a sitting position. He had tried the bed earlier, when they had arrived, and like most cheap motel beds, it was noisy, making squeaks and groans every time he moved, so he had to do this very, _very,_ slowly. _If he wakes up now, you're just going to the bathroom,_ he told himself. _Right now, it's just the bathroom. Nothing wrong with that, people are always waking up to go to the bathroom._

The bed made one groaning noise as he sat up, causing him to freeze and stare over at the other bed, where his father was sleeping. He was facing the window, so all the boy saw was the back of his head, but he stayed as he was. The boy stifled a sigh of relief and slowly, so slowly and carefully, moved his feet to the floor, so he was sitting. _Bathroom,_ he told himself over and over as if it were a chant. _You are just going to the bathroom. Everyone goes to the bathroom. He won't suspect you at all if you just go to the bathroom._

Very gently, the boy reached out and put his hand on the nightstand that was between the two double beds, a worn, shabby thing. On his side there was a bottle of beer, almost empty. He hadn't drunk it, he'd taken it with him into the bathroom right after his father gave it to him, and poured out most of it, knowing he had to be stone cold sober tonight. He had filled up the bottle with water to weaken it, and had sipped on that all night.

On his father's side of the nightstand were two beer bottles, one empty and one almost empty. The boy knew there were three other bottles in the trash. He'd kept a close eye on his father that night. Father had gone to bed with a bit of a buzz, but he wasn't in a dead drunk sleep, which would have made this easier. _Maybe I should wait until another night?_ He asked himself, then answered his own question. _No. You might not have another night. You do it now, or you don't do it at all. Time is running out._

There was a small bag of whitish powder in a tiny Ziploc baggie, and a couple of joints neatly rolled on the nightstand too. Normally, the boy enjoyed snorting cocaine, but his father hadn't offered him any, and the boy hadn't asked. He needed his wits about him tonight. He wouldn't take the powder, or the joints. What he was doing was bad enough, the last thing he needed was to take his father's drugs with him. Besides, pot never did much for him.

The only other item on the nightstand was his father's wallet, fat with cash. As the boy used the nightstand to rise as slowly as possible, hopefully making less noise, he cast a longing glance at the wallet. He had a stash of money at the last place they had called home, over five hundred dollars he'd gotten bit by bit, from scrounging the couch cushions, or taking a ten or twenty out of his father's wallet as he slept and the boy wished he'd had a chance to take it, but he hadn't known this trip was coming, they'd woken him up in the middle of the night, his father and his father's friend Sam, and his duffle bag had had been packed by his father. There was no time to get his money. He knew his father's wallet was likely to contain a lot more than five hundred dollars, because his father paid cash for everything. "If I can give you one piece of advice, Timmy, it's this; never get caught up in credit cards. They always give you just enough rope to hang yourself with, and they can use them to track you. Cash will always get you through. Even if someplace says they have to have a credit card, if you flash enough cash they will overlook the rules." The boy had been about ten then, and he nodded as his father gave him this advice. He didn't even flinch when his father ruffled his hair, he had passed that stage long ago. Instead he smile, glad his father was having a good day.

As he was rising from the bed, trying to anticipate any noise it might make, his father suddenly made a snorting noise and turned in his bed. The boy froze in place, even though that was probably the stupidest thing he could do. It would have been much better if he'd just gotten up and headed to the bathroom. Now if his father opened his eyes, he'd see his son, looking like a squirrel in the road as the car bore down on it, wondering if it should keep running the way it had been going, or to turn around and go back from where it had come. His father liked to hit squirrels with the van. The boy rarely got a chance to sit and look out the windows when they were in the van, but the few times he had been, he'd seen his father speed up to hit a squirrel. "Little fucker is road pizza!" He would laugh, as if it were the first time it had happened. "One less tree rat in this world!"

It wasn't just squirrels. He'd speed up to hit cats, possums, almost anything that crossed the road, as long as it was small enough to kill. The only exception were dogs. His father never hit dogs. "Dogs are great," he'd said once, when he had to swerve to avoid hitting one. "I had a dog as a kid, and I loved that dog. Cujo, like the dog in that movie, but my dog was great. At least to me. If anyone tried to mess with me, well, let's just say on those occasions, Cujo lived up to his name."

The boy had asked if maybe they could get a dog, and his father had said he'd think about it, which the boy knew really meant, "No way." The boy didn't protest. He was glad his father didn't try to hit dogs with the van, and wished he wouldn't try to kill squirrels, cats, and other unfortunately creatures.

The boy even stopped breathing as he stared at his father, waiting for him to open his eyes, and ask what was he doing. _Just going to the bathroom,_ the boy rehearsed in his mind. _Or, 'I gotta take a leak, dad.'_ Yeah, that would be even better, the sort of thing his father said, along with things like "Drain the main vein" or "Gotta go take the piss out of me."

But his father's eyes didn't open. Instead he let out a soft snore and kept right on sleeping. Breathing a sigh of relief, the boy rose.

His sweatpants were lying in pile where he'd thrown them when he climbed into bed. Carefully, he pulled them on. He would have liked to have put on his jeans and t-shirt he had worn earlier, but if his father woke while he was changing, he would know something was up. No one would get fully dressed to use the bathroom.

After he pulled up his sweatpants, he realized he really _did_ have to go to the bathroom, so he did. There was an orange night light type of thing in there, no doubt to give someone enough light to use the bathroom, without risking waking the other person with a bright light. Not all motels had such things and he was grateful this one did. He used the toilet, but didn't flush. It was only pee and he'd drunk enough water that day that he doubted that it would even look as if anyone had used the toilet, if they turned on the light. _"Why didn't I flush?"_ his mind rehearsed, in case when he walked out of the bathroom, his father was there. _"Well, I didn't have to go that much, and I didn't want the noise to wake you up."_

When he left the bathroom, he walked carefully near the bed and stopped to listen. His father's breathing was still steady and even, with the occasional soft snore. His father liked to deny it, but he did snore, especially if he slept on his back. "Me?" he had said once, when the boy mentioned his snoring sometimes kept him awake. "Snore?" His father pointed to himself his eyes wide as if in shock. "Perish the thought! You're telling lies again, Timmy, terrible lies about your father."

His father had been in a good mood that day too, but even so, the boy had stiffened just a little when accused of lying. But his father was grinning, so he grinned back. That had actually been a _really_ good day. If he remembered right, they even had pizza for dinner that night, pizza without olives, which was all the boy wanted. He didn't care what other toppings the pizza had, even if it was those salty fish, but couldn't _stand_ olives. They mingled in with everything, and made the whole pizza taste like olives, even if you picked them off. Unfortunately, his father and Sam loved olives and almost always got extra olives on pizza. But on that day, his father had told him he could pick the toppings and Sam wasn't around to object. The boy asked for pepperoni, sausage, and bacon, knowing that those were three toppings he and his father liked. His father had agreed, and that was one of the few times, the boy could remember really enjoying a pizza and not having that lingering olive taste in his mouth for hours.

His father wasn't on his back now, he was on his side, so his snores were so soft, that if the boy had been asleep, they wouldn't have woken him. _So far, so good_. Now it was time for part two. As carefully and noiselessly as he could, the boy walked over to the dresser where the room key was. There was only one key, his father only ever got one key, but the boy knew he could get a replacement if he had to. If he bothered to stay once he realized what had happened. It was more likely his father would just throw their stuff in the van and try to find him.

He picked up the ice bucket and mentally rehearsed what he would say now that the bathroom excuse wouldn't work. _"I was going to go get some ice._ _The air conditioner is such an old piece of shit that this room is like an oven. I was going to get some ice and drink some ice water to cool down."_ That would work, as long as he could make it sound casual. He'd done that type of thing before, gone for ice. And he'd come back, he'd _always_ come back. Because that's what good boys did, they came back to their father. And he was normally such a good boy. It had been years since he'd been a really bad boy, many years. So his father trusted him now and would let him do things, like get ice, even if it was late at night.

 _But I'm not a good boy now,_ he thought, as ever so quietly, he made his way to the door, opened it and stepped outside. The air outside was hot and muggy, making the boy realize the old air conditioner had been working better than he thought it was. But, it was warm enough in the room that the ice would still be a good excuse. He just wish he could have put on a shirt and worn some shoes. But if his father had woken up, that would have looked strange. Why would he need his shoes just to walk the few feet to the ice machine, which was right outside of the motel office? As it was, the boy didn't wear shoes often. At first, his father wouldn't let him wear shoes at all. Even when they moved someplace else, which they did a lot of, his father wouldn't let him wear shoes in the van, even though the heat didn't work in the back of the van at all, and sometimes it was so cold that the boy would shiver and sometimes he just wished the box he traveled in was big enough for him to sit up and rub his feet until they were warm. His father would let him wear a pair of socks sometimes, but _never_ shoes.

He when the door was shut, he paused and listened. The walls were thin in this place, and he could hear the sound of people a few rooms away, having noisy sex. The boy shook his head, disdainfully, feeling sorry for the people that were on either side of that room. They were probably feeling like they were in the room with the couple and likely couldn't sleep. There was a woman in there, and she was moaning and going, "Oh yes, oh yes, that's it, yes!" over and over again. And then the boy heard a deep, male voice going, "That's it, that's it, cum for me, baby, let me feel your pussy squeezing my dick!" The boy sighed, both irritated at what was being said, because it was so cliché and surprised he hadn't heard them in the room he'd just left, but maybe they hadn't gotten to the shouting stage then. For a moment, the boy was afraid that maybe now their stupid fuck talk was loud enough to wake up his father. It was a chance he'd have to take. And hopefully, his father would either be pissed off or turned on by the noise, that he wouldn't even think to look over to where he thought Timmy was sleeping. Hopefully, he wouldn't realize until it was too late.

Trying to look as casual as possible, the boy walked to the ice machine, holding the ice bucket by the rim. It was one of those cheap, plastic ice buckets, that wouldn't keep the ice from melting. When he got to the ice machine, he opened it, and used it as a scoop, to put some ice into it, just like anyone would. He looked back towards the room he'd left, holding his breath, half expecting to see his father outside, looking around for him. _If he's there, just bring the ice bucket back, full of ice. That will work_. _That's why you took the key, because you were just going to get some ice and come back._

But his father wasn't there, wasn't looking around. Nobody was outside, not even someone having a cigarette or coming back to their room after a night of partying. The boy had no idea what time it was, he thought it was late, but maybe it had been earlier than he'd figured. But, it was dark, and that's what counted.

 _Do or die_ , he told himself, drawing in a deep breath. He wished he'd had a paperclip or something that he could have used to let the air out of the tires of the van parked right out in front of their room. But he hadn't thought of that until just now, and it would be stupid to go into the office and ask for a paperclip. Who needed a paperclip in the middle of the night? And, knowing his luck the half stoned looking night clerk would think his request so odd that he would call his father's room and ask him why his son needed a paperclip in the middle of the night. And most important, even if a paperclip was to fall from the skies, it would take time to let the air out of the tires and time was precious right now.

Drawing in a deep breath and holding it, he dropped the ice bucket into the ice bin and left it there, along with the hotel key. Then, he ducked so he couldn't be seen out the window of the office, and crept under and past it. Then, he straightened himself up and took one last look towards the room. No sign of his father, no sign of anyone.

Letting out the breath he'd held since he'd tossed the ice bucket into the ice maker, he turned and ran, out of the parking lot, for once grateful that his father hadn't allowed him to have shoes, because the parking lot was covered with broken seashells and thanks to hardly ever wearing shoes, the soles of his feet were tough enough to run on those shells without cutting up the soles of his feet. So he ran out of the parking lot and hit the road and kept running and running. And he refused to look behind him.

* * *

"Hey, Marc could you drive any slower? I mean, I wouldn't want to get home before _dawn_ ," Sixteen-year-old Roman Reigns grumbled from the passenger's seat of the ancient SUV. "It's not like I have _practice_ at six in the morning or anything."

His older brother took his eyes briefly off the road to give him a look that was equal parts annoyance and amusement. "Hey, you're the one that wanted to see _Jurassic Park,_ and y-"

"Not just me," Roman interrupted, "You wanted to see it too, and so did pipsqueak," he pointed his thumb towards the back seat where his nine-year-old brother, Lance was sitting.

Lance, who had been quiet up until now, finishing off a box of Raisinets, decided that it was time to speak up. "We _all_ wanted to see it!" he protested. "I mean, _dinosaurs!_ Even if it wasn't as good as the first two, even if they don't don't portray dinosaurs the way they really were, it's still _dinosaurs._ _Everyone_ wants to see dinosaurs!" He pulled a candy out of the box and tossed it at the back of Roman's head, where it landed and bounced harmlessly off. "Besides, we wouldn't have missed the first showing if _you_ hadn't been flirting with the ticket girl!"

Roman turned and frowned at his brother and made a swipe at the box of candy, but Lance jerked it away, closer to his chest and the seat belt didn't give Roman enough room to reach him. "I was _not_ flirting," he said, "She's in my American History class, I was asking about the report we have to turn in next week."

Marc snorted, "Yeah? Since when is asking someone if she's still dating 'that loser Anton' qualify as American History?"

"Because we're in America and Anton is history," Roman said, grinning.

"Sure, do your report on that," Lance suggested. "Yes Ms. Maple, my report is about Britney and her ex boyfriend. I'm sure you'll find it very exciting and knowledgeable and when you finish, your understanding of American History will be greatly broadened."

Marc let out a short, sharp, laugh at this comment.

"Bite me," Roman suggested to Lance, his voice sounding more amused than upset.

"He's right though," Marc said. "Your hormones made us miss the first showing and we had to go to the late showing."

" _My_ hormones?" Roman found the Raisinet Lance had thrown at him, and threw it at Marc. "Who was the one making a date with woman in the lobby? A woman who had come with _another_ guy? It wasn't me, and it wasn't Lance."

"It's not what you think," Marc said, ducking slightly so the candy sailed past him and hit the window, like a chocolate coated insect might, sticking to the glass for a second or so, then sliding down, leaving a brown trail in its wake. "Noella and that guy are just friends. And quit worrying about the time. I gave Lance my phone and he called Mom and she knows we ended up going to the late show, and she's cool with it."

"That's great for you two," Roman grumbled. "But I still have to make practice tomorrow at six am or the Coach is gonna kill me."

"Oh, poor baby," Marc said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "If you remember, I have to get up with the sun myself and get the maggots running."

"Yeah," Roman said, his own voice thick with mock sympathy as well, "While you sit in a chair, spraying them with a hose every time they run by. Such hard work." He shook his head, laying it on thickly. "Rough life." Then he stopped mocking and grew serious. "C'mon Marc, pull over and let me drive. I'll get us home faster and it'll be legal. You're over 21 and I've got my permit. It would be good for me to practice driving at night anyway."

"No way," Marc said. "You drive like the instructions on a coupon, tear along the dotted line. The last thing I need is for you to be pulled over for speeding while I'm supposed to be-" He never had the chance to tell them what he was supposed to be doing, because as he was driving around a curve in the road, a white figure streaked by the car. "Holy-" Marc began as he slammed on the breaks as hard as he could. The white figure leaped to the side of the road at the last minute and landed on the tar and gravel in the breakdown lane, and rolled down a small incline, into the rain ditch. Marc pulled the SUV to the side of the road and put it in park. "What the hell was that!"

"I-I would say it's a ghost," Lance said, his voice trembling. "Except that ghosts aren't real."

"Yeah? Well, if it isn't a ghost, it's the palest dude I've seen in a long time," Roman said. "Did you hit him, Marc?"

Marc shook his head, but he was shaking. "I didn't feel any impact, but everything happened so fast. I've got to see if he's all right." he started to unbuckle his seat belt, but Roman shook his head and reached out his hand to stop him.

"Let me go, instead," he said. "Someone might be chasing this guy and if so, you and Lance have to be able to get out of here quickly."

"Like I'm gonna leave you alone to deal with it?" Marc asked, his voice rising slightly.

"I'll be fine." Roman already had his seat belt unbuckled and before Marc could offer more objections, he opened the door and jumped out. "You keep the car running. I'll see if he's all right and see if we need to call an ambulance. Keep an eye out for anyone that might be chasing him." And again, before Marc or Lance could say anything, he headed down the incline.

The figure was still lying in the ditch, now covered with rain water and mud, not moving. For a moment, Roman's heart sped up, thinking he was dead, but then he sat up with a groan. Roman hurried over. "Buddy," he said, "Are you okay? Did we hit you? I mean, we didn't mean to, but you just ran out into the road so fast, we didn't see you until it was too late. Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance? What am I saying, of course you need and ambulance!" He pulled out his cell phone.

The guy reached out, trying to grab the phone from Roman. "No police!" he cried out, "No ambulance. I'm _fine._ You didn't hit me, I jumped off the road. You didn't even graze me, so no need to call an ambulance, no need to get the police involved. I'm fine. Really I'm great," The person tried to struggle to his feet, splattered with mud and marsh grass from the ditch. Roman reached out to help him, offer him a hand, but the person batted it away. "I can get up by myself!" he insisted as he started pulling himself into a standing position. As he shifted weight onto his left foot, he groaned and fell to his knees. "My ankle," he said, and Roman realized from the sound of his voice, that he was young. Not a little kid, but not an adult either. "I fucked up my ankle."

"Yeah, we've got to call an ambulance," Roman said. "The ankle might just be part of this, you could have gotten hurt worse than you know. Internal bleeding and all of that."

"No!" The whitest kid Roman ever met roared, "I'll be fine!"

"Don't be an idiot," Roman said. "You will _not_ be fine. Why are you out this late anyway? Alone? And not even wearing a shirt for God's sake? You wanna be mosquito bait?" His gaze wandered up and down, trying to take in more of him, then just his unnaturally pale skin. "Oh god, you aren't even wearing _shoes._ You were running around in bare feet! You're either the bravest or stupidest person in the world."

"Hey!" Marc called down, having opened the window of the SUV and was leaning out of it. "Is he okay?"

"His ankle is messed up," Roman called back. "He says you didn't hit him though, he got it when he jumped to the side of the road to avoid you. He's a mess though, he's all muddy, he's not wearing a shirt and he has no shoes, but he doesn't want me to get an ambulance for him."

"Well, how about we take him to a hospital?" Marc suggested.

"Great idea," Lance muttered from the back. "He could be a zombie or something, and eat our brains."

"Zombies are no more real than ghosts," Marc reminded his brother.

"Okay, he could be a serial killer or something," Lance countered. "Serial killers are real and they like Florida, it's got a lot of swampland to hide the bodies."

Roman, meanwhile had helped get the guy standing up, allowing him to lean most of his weight onto Roman, and keeping his bad ankle off the ground. "No hospital," pale boy said, shaking his head. "I can't go to the hospital."

"Why not?" Roman asked.

"I just can't," the person said, shaking his head quickly spraying Roman with bits of ditch water. There had been some heavy rain the past few days and these drainage ditches were more like tiny swamps. "I'm okay, you didn't hit me, you can go. I'll be fine."

"No you won't," Roman disagreed. "You can't even walk. You don't have a shirt, you don't have shoes. What do you think, you can just sit down here until you heal?"

"Let's bring him home," Marc called down. "Mom's done enough first aide on the students, she'll know if it's sprained or broken, and if it's just sprained she can wrap it properly."

"Another great idea," Lance said, his voice still soft enough so only Marc could hear. "A might be serial killer, and we're gonna bring him home to meet Mom and Dad."

"Yeah, he's such a threat, him being unable to walk." Marc snapped back. He thought his younger brother was completely full of it, but as Roman began half walking with and half dragging the kid up to the road, he told Lance to move to the front seat. Lance was tall for his age, and this was a special circumstance, so Marc figured he could get away with it. Marc knew if Ghost boy tried anything, Roman could stop him, Lance was another matter. He wasn't going to let the baby of the family, have to deal with him, he didn't care about the law saying you had to be twelve to ride in the front seat.

"I don't _need_ any help," Ghost boy protested, as they got to the car and Roman opened the door. "it's probably not even sprained or nothing. I'll bet if I wait a couple minutes, I'll be able to walk on it."

"Oh yeah?" Roman snorted. "Put your weight on it now. If you can do that without pain, we'll drive off and let you figure it out, but if you can't, then you're coming home with us. Mom's cool, and she does know a lot about the difference between broken bones and sprains. And you probably won't have to go to the doctor or the hospital. But we're not leaving you unless we know you can walk."

Ghost boy drew in a deep breath and lowered his foot to the ground. He hadn't even put any weight on it, and it began hurting. He tried to pretend nothing was wrong and only shift the tiniest amount of weight to it. "See?" he said through gritted teeth, "it's fine."

Lance had climbed up to the front seat, and fastened the seat belt. Feeling braver, he rolled down the windows and called out to the pale stranger, "As my dad would say, 'yeah? And if my aunt had balls, she'd be my uncle.' We're already late, get in the car and let's get you to our place or I'm gonna be grounded until puberty." He turned his head and looked over at Marc. "If he _is_ a serial killer, one of us should manage to escape. I almost hope it _isn't_ me, because mom is gonna _kill_ whoever survives for being stupid enough to pick up a serial killer. And she'll probably do it more painfully than Ghost guy would.

Ghost guy wanted to protest, but sighed instead, the fight drained out of him. "it'll be cool, dude," Roman said. "You'll see. Mom'll figure it out and get you fixed and on your way." He wasn't sure about the "on your way" part, his parents weren't just going to let a kid go back out into the world without knowing where he was going, but he thought the kid was skittish enough. _It's just a small, white, lie,_ he thought.

Heaving one final sigh, Ghost boy nodded. Roman opened the door behind the passenger's side and as carefully and gently as he could, helped Ghost get inside and get his seat belt on. Then he ran around and climbed into the seat behind Marc's and fastened his own seat belt. "Bro, can't you pulled the seat up a bit? My knees are almost behind my ears."

Marc ignored his brother and pulled out onto the road, grateful that no one else had stopped. "We're not far from our place," he said. "By the way, I'm Marc, the little dude next to me is Lance and Roman's the one that got your sorry ass out of that ditch."

"Thank you," the ghost said.

"You're welcome," Marc said, "So, what's your name?"

The ghost leaned his head back in the seat and never answered. His eyes were shut, whether he'd passed out, or was in too much pain to think, none of the three Reigns boys could tell, but they thought it could wait. The important thing was to get the kid to their house and get their mother to take a look at his ankle.

* * *

 _Great_ , the boy thought, as he bit his lip, trying to will the pain in his ankle to go away. He didn't want to be here, he couldn't be here. He was supposed to be putting distance between himself and his father, and while being in a car was faster, these guys were taking him someplace close. _Just my rotten, fucking luck,_ the boy thought, fighting back the tears that sprang to his eyes. He never cried anymore, never. His father didn't like it when he cried, and would call him names, or worse. So he had learned not to cry. But then again, he'd never been hurt while running away. He hadn't even tried to run away for years, and that was scary enough, but his ankle hurt too. He felt as if he was entitled to shed a few tears, but he didn't know if these three guys would get mad. Maybe they didn't like crying as much as his father and Sam didn't.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears to stay where they were, and hoped everyone just thought he'd fallen asleep and would leave him alone. He wasn't sure what would happen when they got to their house, but he'd play that by ear. Maybe this rest would make his ankle feel better? He doubted it, but for now, it was the best he could do.

"I think he's asleep," he heard Roman say, which was perfect. Let them think he was sleeping. It gave him time to think. And he needed time to think. If only his stupid ankle would stop throbbing.

Then, the Marc guy drove over a bump in the road and the boy's left leg was jostled, rising a few inches in the air and then slamming his foot down. Unable to stop himself, the boy's eyes flew open and he yelped.

"Hey, take it easy!" Roman called to his brother. "The kid has a bum ankle, let's not make it any worse!"

"Oh, I'm sorry I couldn't anticipate the potholes better," Marc said, sarcastically, but he call out "Sorry about that" to the boy.

"So," the youngest one twisted in his seat to look at the boy. "Since you're awake, what's your name?"

 _Name_ , the boy thought, _Shit yeah, I need a name. I can't say I'm Timmy, that would be bad. And I don't want to be Timmy anymore. So, I need a name. Any name, I just need a name!_ He should have thought of this earlier, should have come up with a name and practiced it in his head until it sounded natural. Now he was caught. Desperately, knowing the kid was staring at him, the boy blurted the first name he could think of. "Bret Hart."

There was a second of absolute silence, then the three boys burst out laughing. "Try again," the youngest one said, shaking his head. "You are _not_ Bret Hart. If _anyone_ would know that, it would be us."

 _They must be wrestling fans too_ , the boy thought, which might have been cool, talking to other folks who loved wrestling, but not now with his ankle all messed up and them taking him to their parent's house. "I-I know it sounds weird," he stammered, "I know there is a Bret Hart who wrestles, but it's my name too. It's a coincidence."

"Sure," Roman said, snorting. "C'mon, what's your name?"

"I _told_ you," the boy stubbornly insisted.

"Fine, don't tell us," the younger one, said, twisting back so he was sitting correctly. "I'm just gonna call you Casper, then."

"Casper?" The boy said, shaking his head. "What a dumb name."

"Not so dumb," Lance disagreed. "You're so white you're almost _luminous_ , and Casper is a ghost. And since you won't tell us your real name, _I'm_ gonna call you Casper."

 _Great_ , the boy thought. He wished he could give another name, but his brain was drawing a blank, and all he could think of were wrestlers names. He thought for a minute of mixing a couple of them, like calling himself Shawn Helmsley, but if they hadn't believe he was Bret Hart, they probably would figure out pretty fast he'd just mashed up a couple different wrestlers. _I'm dead_ , he thought, biting his lip, trying to block out the pain of his throbbing ankle. He had noticed Marc had slowed down, and the boy suspected it was to keep from jarring his ankle again and for that, the boy was grateful. Since he was probably nearing the end of his life, he might as well be as comfortable as possible, even with a bad ankle.

End Chapter One

* * *

 **Authors Notes: First, if you aren't the type that enjoys reading Stephen King's notes that he includes in a lot of his stories, then feel free to skip over these things. I'm putting them at the end of the story for that reason.**

 **To any readers... if you've read my stuff before, hi, hows it going? Yes, I'm writing again! If this is the first time you've read my stuff, hi, welcome.**

 **Second... Yes, I love feedback. Comments are lovely, so feel free. However, when I was on here before, I was... well, let's be blunt, I was demanding of them. And I still do feel that it's a nice thing to give feedback, but.. while I was gone all this time (I was dealing with cancer. Yes, it sucked. But also, I was luckier than a lot of folks, and I'm okay now, so no, you don't have to feel sorry for me.) I realized that I was on some bad sort of hamster wheel, where I felt like all I was doing was trying to give everyone feedback while hoping to get feedback myself. Every story I read, I felt like I was supposed to write huge reviews. Whether I wanted to or not. And, wanted people to do the same with me. And it stopped being fun. It started being a chore. So, I stepped back. And then, of course, cancer. But, when I went back to writing, something hit me that _should_ have hit me years ago.**

 **I need to stop asking my readers to justify my writing.**

 **It isn't _your_ job to make me feel that it's okay for me to write something. It isn't _you_ r job to validate my ideas, or to dictate my plots to me, or anything. Just as it isn't _my_ job to write in ways that conform to your wishes. If I were writing a story as a favor to you, that would be a different thing, but I don't write request stories, I write what I want to write. So, I have no right to expect readers to treat my writing like I am doing a personal favor to them for writing it. That's BS and I was doing it, and I have to stop it, right now.**

 **And yes, this is a hard road for me to travel. Because I do want to crawl into people's heads and see what they see when they read my stuff. I want to know if people were moderately amused when they read Roman's line about how he lives in America and Anton is history. I want to know who they think the pale kid is. What they think is going on. I want to know everything, because I can only see my work from one side, the side of God of This World. I want to know what the ones who are not Gods, but merely visitors to my world think.**

 **But... for me to expect readers to do that, is again, to ask them to validate me. And that isn't fair. That is forgetting the whole basis of fanfiction. Fanfiction is supposed to be fun for me to write and it's supposed to be fun for you to read. And if the best way for your to enjoy it, is to read it and keep your observations to yourself, then, well, that's how you enjoy it.**

 **So, yeah, I want feedback. I really do. And I will continue to thank folks for their feedback, but I'm going to stop expecting it. I'm writing this story because _I_ want to write it. It's been bouncing around in my head for years, and I've tried to write it before, but now I've found the way to do it. And, even if I never know for sure, I hope you still enjoyed reading it. And I hope we all can enjoy this journey together... even if you choose to travel along as a silent observer.**

 **tl;dr: Enjoy this story however you want to. I'm just grateful you're reading it. And, while I am likely to still thank folks for feedback, I won't try to coax folks into giving it to me, it's completely up to you.**

 **Third: I have to thank my husband and Betagirl, who, through role playing, helped me create this world we're in. Especially my husband, who helped me flesh out the characters of Lance and Marc, to the point where they seem as real to me as the character of Roman Reigns. Thank you. I love you both.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Shaking her head, Jennifer Reigns stared at the phone in her hand, as if she wanted to shoot it. She had been calling Roman's and Marc's cell phone numbers for the last hour or so, leaving message after message. _They turned them off for the movie, I'll bet, and they haven't turned them back on._ She knew they had missed the eight o'clock showing, and had to wait for the 10:30, which hadn't made her very happy, but now it was after two o'clock in the morning. They should have been home by now.

"They better be safe," she said, loud enough so her husband, who was in the living room watching TV could hear. "They had better not have gotten hurt. Because _I_ want to be the one that kills them."

Iosefa Reigns, better known as Sefa, let out a snorting laugh, then turned off the TV and came into the kitchen. He too, was worried about his sons, but he was trying to stay calm. Jen was the worrier of the family, a job she did well. "I'm sure they're fine," he said, trying to comfort her. "The movie probably didn't get out until twelve thirty or so."

"Yes, and it takes about a half an hour to get home," Jen pointed out, "Let's say that they loaded it up with previews and they didn't get out until one o'clock. They still should have been home-" she looked over at the clock "at _least_ forty five minutes ago, if not an hour."

"Eh, the SUV doesn't exactly do neck breaking speeds anymore," Sefa reminded her. "And Marc drives like a little old lady in the dark. If they aren't home in ten minutes, I'll take the car and try to trace the route they would have gone. The fact that you can't get them on their phones is a good sign."

Jen's eyebrows arched and she looked at him. "A _good_ sign?" she repeated.

"Yeah," Sefa said. "A _good_ sign. If they had gotten in trouble, like the car breaking down, they would have turned on their phones to call Triple A. You not being able to reach them says to me that they're fine."

"Or, someone could have taken their phones away," Jen muttered as she went to the coffee maker and started making a pot. "Lance should have a cell phone, _he_ would have remembered to turn it on." She tried not to slam the coffee canister after she had put some ground coffee in the basket with the reusable mesh filter. She whirled around and looked at her husband, who was over at the refrigerator, taking out a container of half and half. "Maybe we should call Aaron? Have him and the others look out for them?"

"I don't think that's-" Sefa began then stopped as lights shone into the window. Someone had just turned into the driveway. "They're home," he said. "I know the sound of the engine, it's them."

"Thank God!" Jen said, heading for the door. She was in the mud porch, when she saw Lance jumping out of the front passenger's seat, which he was legally not allowed to be in, which did nothing to calm her down. But Lance ran towards her, a bright smile on his face as she walked out of the mudroom and onto the side porch.

"Marc hit someone with the car, that's why we're late!" he sounded cheerful as if getting hit by an SUV was no big deal. "We brought him with us because he won't let us take him to the hospital. His ankle is messed up."

" _I did not hit him!"_ Marc nearly roared as he got out of the driver's side. "He just ran out into the road and I slammed on the brakes. He leaped, I think to make sure he _didn't_ get hit him, but he ended up falling down into the ditch."

"It's a good thing Marc drives with one foot on the brake, like a scared old lady, or Casper would be toast," Lance said cheerfully. "The ghost would be toast, that's pretty good!"

Jen looked over at the SUV, watching as Roman, who hadn't said anything so far, got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side and brought out a young man, who, she had to give Lance credit, _was_ very, _very_ pale. And only dressed in a pair of sweat pants, not even wearing shoes. Roman had his arm around him, helping him hobble over. The boy was so skinny, Jen was sure Roman could have just scooped him up and carried him and it would have been easier, but she sensed Roman was doing that to let the boy have some dignity. If there was one thing Jen had learned raising three sons, it was that starting at an early age, they didn't like to look weak. She held open the door into the mudroom so Roman could bring the boy inside. Sefa was still in the kitchen, holding that door open. "What in the world-"

Sefa's youngest son interrupted. "He's Casper, or at least that's what I'm calling him, cause he's so white. He's probably has a _massive_ vitamin D deficiency. Marc hit-" he shot a look towards his older brother who was staring at him. "Marc _almost_ hit him with the car. We stopped to make sure he was okay, but he was in a ditch. His ankle is wrecked. Sprained, probably, but maybe even broken!"

As Roman and their guest walked into the mud room, Jen noticed there was a little more than just his ankle that was wrong. The kid had a good case of road rash on his arms and part of his chest. And his back had a lot of scars. An _awful_ lot of scars, most of them faded down so they weren't as noticeable, but they weren't invisible either. _Those aren't fresh. I'd bet the house that when he was younger, this kid was beaten a lot. Those don't look like scars you'd get from an accident. They look like the scars you get when someone whips you and whips you hard_. She didn't voice her opinions though, because it was obvious their young guest was as skittish as a newborn colt. She could tell by looking into his eyes that if his ankle wasn't a mess, he'd have already bolted.

Roman helped the kid into one of the kitchen chairs and looked over at his father. "I wanted to call an ambulance, but he wouldn't let me. I couldn't just leave him in a ditch with a bad ankle." His eyes were pleading for him to understand. "But that's why we're so late."

"Of course you couldn't just leave him," Sefa said, trying to sound as if having his sons bring home a boy they'd almost hit with the SUV was a perfectly normal thing to do. "Your mother can fix him up."

Jen was already coming into the kitchen, kneeling down in front of the chair that the boy was sitting in. She looked up at him, trying to look reassuring. "This will hurt," she admitted. "But I have to see if your ankle is broken, or just badly sprained. I'm sorry, but I will try to be as quick as possible." What she did not say, but thought was, _and if it is broken, we are taking you to a hospital._

* * *

The boy looked down at her, blue eyes both nervous and intense. He hesitated only briefly, then nodded, giving her silent permission to carry out her examination. She began to touch around the ankle, which was swelling up nicely. It hurt, just as she said it would, but the boy refused to yelp, refused to say or do anything that would tell her how much it hurt. Nobody liked a yelping, crybaby. He'd learned that pretty fast living with his father, although part of him suspected he'd already learned it or been well on his way before his father took him.

"So, what's your name?" Sefa asked, trying to distract the boy from the examination of his ankle. "I know my youngest has been calling you Casper, but I doubt that's your real name."

"Oh, Dad, that reminds me, we asked him," Lance said brightly, "and he said his name was Bret Hart."

Sefa couldn't help but laugh, but he did his best to choke it off quickly. "You picked the wrong people to pull that one off," he said.

"I c-could be," The boy, his voice trembling said, "There are other people named Bret in this world, he's n-not the only one. And there are people who have the last name Hart. I _c-could_ be Bret Hart."

"Well, yes," Sefa acquiesced then fixed his gaze on the boy. "But you're _not_ , are you?"

The kid hesitated, then shook his head and barely whispered, "No."

"Okay, then what _is_ your name?" Sefa asked.

"I-I don't know," the boy blurted out. And he wasn't really lying. Yes, he'd been Timmy most of his life, but Timmy wasn't a real name, it was just a name his father gave him. He'd been someone else before, he could remember screaming it at his father, when he first went to live with him, and getting hit a whole lot of times, hit badly for that.

" _That's not your name anymore!" his father had screamed as he whipped his back. The boy was handcuffed to a pipe in the basement and couldn't move away, all he could do was twist a little bit, as his feet tried to find purchase on the floor, but he could only reach it with the tips of his toes. "Your name is_ _ **Timmy**_ _, and if I ever hear you use the name-"_

The boy tried to remember what his father had said his name used to be, he really tried, but it just wouldn't come to him. He'd carved it into a wall in a closet he once used to have to sit in if he was bad, just so he would remember it, but his father had seen it and beat him until he blacked out. And when the boy just decided to accept that Timmy was his name, his father tested him by sometimes calling him by his old name. And every time the boy had responded to it, he had been punished. Beatings first, then hours in the closet, a different closet than the one he'd carved his name into, they'd moved since then. And his father had kicked out the wall where the name was carved, turning it into dust. If he wasn't forced into the closet, he was chained up in the basement. They moved around a lot, but his father always did his best to make sure they rented houses that were off the main drag, not deserted, but not where the houses were almost on top of each other. If he could, he tried to make sure there was a basement, or at least a semi-finished basements that could be transformed into a little boy's room. But his father always made sure there was one section where he could be chained. The boy knew it was wrong of him to forget his own name, but he had. He had _forced_ himself to forget his name.

"I-I" he began and to his horror, he felt tears starting to prickle in his eyes and it wasn't because of the pain being caused to him as the woman examined his ankle. "I can't remember."

Sefa barely looked phased. "Okay then, you're going to be luckier than some kids, because for now you can pick a name. Give us something we can call you." He shrugged as if picking a new name was no big deal, then added, "just try not to pick a wrestler's name."

"Especially not, Undertaker," Roman said, which made everyone but the woman and him laugh. And while he didn't laugh, even the boy knew it was kind-of funny.

"Uhm," The boy said, stalling for time and wishing he had thought more carefully as he had planned his escape. What type of idiot would forget something that important. Him, that's who. _He_ was that stupid.

"It doesn't seem to be broken," the woman said, which made him really happy for a lot of reasons, one being that her announcing it gave him more time to think. "But it is pretty badly sprained. We're going to put it in some ice."

While the woman had been checking his ankle, the one kid, the one closest to his age, Roman, had fetched a plastic tub, filled it with ice. The oldest one of the kids, Marc, had left the room and came back with a bag that was sort-of like his duffle bag back at the motel. The woman opened it and pulled out a weird sort-of zippered sock. "I don't want to get your foot _too_ cold. This will help prevent ice burn. And it's water proof." And it did hurt when she put it on him, it hurt a lot, but he didn't cry out. He bit his lip and dealt with it. And then when the sock was on, she put his foot in the pan of ice. For a few seconds, he felt nothing, then his foot started feeling cold and he almost wanted to pull it out. Sensing it, the woman put her hand on his knee. "I know it takes some getting used to, but give it a few moments and you'll see, it will numb the pain." She stood up. "In the meanwhile, I'll make breakfast." She looked towards the clock and shook her head ruefully. "I guess we run today on coffee and fumes," she remarked, looking at her husband.

"Great!" Lance said, going for the coffee pot. "I've always wanted to try coffee."

"You're _not_ included in this plan," his father told him, his voice not angry, but carrying a tone about it that said he would clearly not tolerate any argument about this. " _You_ are going to have some breakfast and go to bed. You can sleep as late as you want."

"Aw, no fair," Lance muttered. "I never get to have any fun."

Roman snorted, while getting himself a cup of coffee and going to the refrigerator. "You're the baby of the family, you're spoiled rotten." He pulled out a container of half and half and poured a liberal amount in his cup.

"Am not!"

"Are too."

"I'm the oldest and I say you're _both_ spoiled," Marc said, helping himself to coffee as well.

"Oh yeah, tell me about how rough you had it as a kid, Marc," their father said, holding up his thumb and forefinger and rubbing them together. "And while you do, I'll play _My Heart Bleeds For You_ on the world's smallest violin."

The boy found this whole exchange interesting. Was this how normal families acted? Making fun of each other? But doing it in a way that made it seem fair. Not like when he was with his father, when he had to carefully check his mental temperature every time he talked to him, knowing that if he said the wrong thing at the wrong time, punishment would be swift and painful. But part of him was also thinking, knowing sooner or later the conversation was going to get back to what name he wanted to go by.

He had not watched much TV in his life. His father was very careful about what he let him watch. Wrestling was okay, in fact his father highly approved of wrestling. But they couldn't watch it while it was actually playing on TV, his father would tape it and they would watch it later, his father fast forwarding through the commercials. His father would also find wrestling tapes at stores and flea markets and stuff and bring them home, and he could watch those as much as he wanted, if he'd been a good boy, so his father didn't take away the TV/VCR combination, that for some reason, couldn't get any TV channels. There were other movies he was allowed to watch too. And of course, there were special movies he could watch, the ones his father loved to watch, but the boy never wanted to do that.

He thought about one movie his father had let him watch, not too long ago. One of the characters… his name was cool enough. "Jon Moxen," he blurted out.

" _Varsity Blues,_ " Roman commented. "Good movie."

 _Great,_ the boy thought. _I can't do anything right._ "Uh," he stammered.

"Hold on," the man said, raising his hand. "We can work with that. Jon is an easy enough and good enough name to use. We'll just alter the last name a bit..."

The room was silent as everyone thought about this. Then, Lance looked up. "Moxie," he said. "You know, because it takes a lot of Moxie to run out in front of a car, even if it is being driven by someone who drives like a snail in the dark."

"Will you stop criticizing my driving?" Marc sighed as he spoke.

"Maybe if the turtles that walk along the side of the road weren't walking faster than you drive in the dark," Roman said, grinning. Lance giggled and the two boys did a high-five.

"That's enough," the man said, his voice carrying a warning tone. He turned back to the boy. "Moxie isn't quite right either. How about Mox _ley?"_

The boy thought for a moment. _Jon Moxley_. It was as good a name as any, and Moxley sounded kinda cool. He'd heard the expression "Moxie" before, Sam used it a few times, once even about him. "The kid has moxie, I give him that." And the boy had known having moxie was a _good_ thing. Having moxie meant you were tough and you had balls. Things which Sam and his father did not appreciate, but he was still glad he had it. But Moxley just _sounded_ better, it rolled off the ears sounding like a regular name, but still carried traces of that toughness. Maybe people would start calling him Mox like they had the kid in the movie. That would be pretty cool. "I-I like it," he stammered, looking at the man.

"Then Jon Moxley it is," the man held out his hand. The boy hesitated and took it, not wanting to touch him, but feeling this was required of him, and let the man shake it. "It's nice to meet you, Jon Moxley."

Since the man actually seemed to be fine with the name, the boy decided he'd see if he could push it a bit. "You can call me Mox," he suggested, trying to sound casual. When the man's eyebrows raised he hastily added, "if you want, you don't _have_ to. You can just call me Jon."

"I'll call you Mox if that's what you want," The man said. "It will do until we find out your real name. And you can call me Sefa. And the woman over there making breakfast? You can call her Jen."

There was something familiar about the man, the newly christened Mox had noticed, but he couldn't put his finger on it and was too shy to ask. But, at least his foot had gone from being shocked by the ice, to numb, and that was a lot better. He gathered up his courage and asked, "Can I have some coffee, too?" He often drank coffee, his father hadn't cared, but he knew he couldn't have gotten up and got some and even if he could, that might be considered rude.

"Absolutely not," Jen said. She was cracking eggs into a bowl to make scrambled eggs. "How about a nice glass of milk, instead? Because after you eat breakfast, I'm going to bandage that ankle and _you're_ going to bed."

"I-I can't stay here!" Mox protested. "I mean, I appreciate what you've done and all, but won't I be able to walk when you bandage it?" There was bacon cooking now, in a big cast iron pan, and the smell of it made Mox's stomach growl. "I mean, I'll stay for breakfast, if you want, but I don't want to sleep here, I don't want to be a bother."

"You're not going to be able to walk very far, even with crutches, which we've got plenty of around here, so we'll set you up with a pair." Sefa said.

"We'll be happy to drive you home, if you have a home," Jen ventured as she pulled a gallon of milk out of the refrigerator and filled a glass and brought it to him. "Do you _have_ a home, Jon?"

"No," Mox said. He knew it was stupid to try to lie. If he said he had a home, they would have wanted to take him there, or call there.

"What about your parents?" That was Sefa.

"Uh, they're dead," Mox said. Well, it wasn't exactly a lie. He could barely remember his mother and she _could_ be dead. And as far as he was concerned, his father _was_ dead. Although, the dead could be awful lively and he was terrified his father would track him here, and that would be very, very bad. Not just for himself, but for these nice people whose only crime was _not_ leaving him by the side of the road. Subconsciously, he reached up and rubbed at a tiny scar in the back of his head.

"So, you're a foster kid or something?" Roman asked.

"Did you run away from your foster home because they were jerks?" Lance asked, looking wide eyed, as if this might be interesting. "Kids are _always_ running away from foster homes in books and in movies, because their foster parents are really mean. Like Harry Potter. I mean, he didn't run away, and he wasn't a foster kid, he lived with his aunt and uncle, but they made him sleep in a closet and were really mean to him. And he probably would have run away if he hadn't found out he was a Wizard and got to go to Hogwarts."

"I'm not a foster kid," Mox said, wondering what exactly, a foster kid, and who this Harry Potter was, and what in the world was a 'Hogwarts? "I-I take care of myself."

Sefa's brow raised again. "You do?" He looked him up and down. "You do a pretty shitty job of it, I have to say."

"Sefa, _language!"_ Jen scolded, returning to the stove to finish making breakfast.

"It-it's all right," Mox said, "I-I'm not bothered by swearing." His father had sworn all the time, as did his friends. And, if he was being honest with himself, so did he. _I'm going to have to watch that shit,_ he thought as he took a sip of the milk, then struggled not to gulp it all down.

"Well, that's nice of you not to be bothered, Jon, but I really don't want him swearing around his sons." She shot Sefa a look as she walked back to the stove. She looked over at Lance and Roman. "Rather than just stand there, why don't you set the table?"

As the boys set to work getting dishes and silverware out of the cabinets and drawers, Sefa turned his attention back to him. "So, if you're on your own, you must have an apartment, right? Or at least a room in a rooming house."

He shook his head, trying to come up with an explanation. "Uh, I'm between places right now," he said. "My last apartment, uh, the um, building burned down." He looked down, refusing to look Sefa in the eyes. "So, uh, I've been looking for a new one."

"Well, isn't that perfect then," Sefa said. "Because we just _happen_ to have an extra bed, and you just _happen_ to need a place to stay while you're healing. How about your job, Mox? Anyone we should be calling to tell you're not going to be working for a bit? Or, can you do your job sitting or lying down?"

Mox gulped. It was scary enough that these people were insisting he stay here, which could put them in danger, but now they were asking about his job. _Do they know?_ He wondered, _Is there something about me that lets strangers know what I've done? Or have they seen me? Shit! Is this a set up?_ His hands clenched into fists and his fingernails dug into the palms of his hands. He wanted to run, but his foot was in a bucket of ice water, and there were way too many people in here, if he tried to go for the door, they'd stop him, easily.

"Sefa, _stop_ it!" Jen protested. "Jon has enough problems, he doesn't need you giving him a hard time!" she turned to him. "Look, I don't know what you've been through, but I can guess it was a lot. I'm not expecting you to spill your life story, at least not now. You are going to stay here at least until your ankle heals or we find out where and who you belong with."

"I don't _belong_ anywhere," he protested before he could stop himself. "I don't belong _to_ anyone, either."

"Well, you do now," Jen said, her voice firm. "You belong _here_ , at least for now. We'll figure everything else out as necessary. And, as I said, you don't have to tell us your life story. But, we do expect you to answer questions as honestly as you can. If you don't know an answer, that's fine. But don't lie."

Mox wanted to get up, wanted to say he wouldn't follow that rule, and walk out the door, but the bacon smelled so good, as did the eggs that were now cooking in the bacon fat. And he could smell bread being toasted and his stomach was making those gurgling noises. He hadn't eaten since the day before yesterday, and he was _so_ hungry. He wasn't going anywhere with this ankle, and he was exhausted. _Face it,_ he told himself. _You're beat._ But he wasn't going to give up completely. "I want the right to refuse to answer, if I think it will endanger me or anyone around here."

Now, both Sefa and Jen looked at each other, and he knew even though they weren't talking, they were somehow communicating. It was Sefa who broke the silence and his voice was firm. "For now, we accept that," he said. "But we reserve the right to negotiate later."

Mox tried not to sigh, but he nodded. "Okay. But for now, I want that right."

* * *

"So," Sefa asked as he brought the dishes to the sink. "What happens next?"

"I honestly don't know," Jen admitted. They had the kitchen to themselves. Roman had helped Jon to his room, where he had a spare bed, now that Marcus was living in the house that used to be used by Sefa's former tag team partner, until he retired. Jon had protested, saying he could sleep in the mud room, but he hadn't protested all that much. With a full belly, his ankle wrapped, the cuts and scrapes he had gotten also cleaned and bandaged, and a couple of Ibuprofen, it was obvious the kid desperately needed to get some sleep. When Roman came down a few minutes later, he reported Mox had fallen to sleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow. He'd offered to skip practice and help with the business, but Sefa had sent him off, knowing how much Roman loved football, even practices.

Marc had gone out to work, getting the latest batch of campers off and going. Sefa knew he should be out there, too, but figured this qualified as extenuating circumstances. He had a few others who worked for him, former wrestlers who were unable to wrestle anymore for various reasons, or at least not able to keep up with the grueling schedule the WWF put its stars through. Sometimes they had a big name, when a wrestler was out on an injury that would allow them to teach, even if they couldn't get into the ring and actually show people how it was done. When football season was over, Roman helped and he and his brothers would show, while an instructor explained the move. Lance helped too, sometimes, which Sefa _really_ loved. There was nothing better than hearing some wannabe wrestler, whine about how a move was too hard, then having his nine year old son come out and show them exactly how it was done. Although, he had to be careful with that. After what his youngest son had been through, Jen wanted the kid as far away from wrestling, from anything that might hurt him. The problem was that Lance was a young boy and he was healthy now, and like all healthy young boys he wanted to run and play. And as one might expect from a child of his, Lance wanted to be a wrestler. He might change his mind later, but then again, he might not. Wrestling was in his blood.

"I want to take him to the clinic when he wakes up," Sefa said. "You're usually right, but still, I'd feel better if he got some X-rays, just to be sure."

Jen nodded, but didn't look overly confident. "How? He doesn't have insurance, I'm sure."

"I'll take him to Proctor, he's our family doctor. I know hi well enough to see him and explain the situation as briefly as possible. We can work it out. Worst come to worst, I'll pay cash for the whole thing. He'll cut me a break, probably not report it, thus, our insurance won't go up, and everything is taken care of."

"What if he needs a script?" Jen pointed out, as she hung the skillet in its proper place. "They will probably want to give him something a little stronger than the store brand of Ibuprofen. I'd say Naproxen, possibly something even stronger."

"Maybe they'll have samples," Sefa said, shrugging. "Proctor and the staff? They're friends, Jen, they won't report us. Especially when I explain that he's clearly a kid who is in need of care that he's not been getting at home."

"He's been abused," Jen said. "Did you _see_ all the scars on his back?

"Yeah." Sefa shook his head, looking and feeling exhausted. "And, Lance was right about him being pale. He's more than pale he looks like-" He paused to think of how to put it.

"Like he's been living in the dark most of his life," Jen suggested.

"Yeah," Sefa said, nodding as well. "Like a basement or something. We're going to have to douse that kid in sunscreen just to let him go outside for a minute or he's going to burn to a crisp."

Jen sighed. "So, what are we going to do, Sefa? He's not going anywhere on his own, not with that ankle, and we've got the room for him to stay here, but I don't want to be accused of harboring a runaway or a kidnapped child."

"I agree," Sefa said. "And if I had someone willing to throw away their money, I'd bet them that the kid has been living with someone other than his legal guardian. So, the first step is to try to find out if someone, his true parent or guardian is looking for him."

"How do we do that?" Jen bit her lower lip looking worried. "If we go to the police, won't they want to take him off somewhere? Put him in a temporary foster home?"

"That's likely," Sefa admitted. "I don't know a lot about how these things work, but I do know that we're pretty good friends with the Sheriff, and Aaron knows we're good parents to our boys, so I think if I ask him to find out what he can without actually, you know, saying he's living here, he'll be willing to go for that. He knows we aren't going to abuse the kid."

"But what if no one _is_ looking for him?" Jen asked, "Or what if it takes a long time to find whoever is?"

"Then we see if we can be his foster family," Sefa said, rising to his feet. "I think I'll go and take a picture of the kid with that digital camera we gave Lance, and go down to the sheriff's office. Let's get this ball rolling."

"Do you think you can get a good enough picture Jon while he's asleep? The flash might wake him, or he might be sleeping on his stomach."

"Well, I'll find that out, soon enough," Sefa said, heading towards the stairs.

* * *

Less than an hour later, Sefa was in the same SUV the boys had borrowed the night before, heading into town to talk to Aaron with three decent pictures of "Jon Moxley" No one would say they were flattering, in one of them he was on his back, his mouth gaping open, a trail of goo running out the side. But, Sefa figured they were good enough for getting an ID on the kid, and with any luck, Mox wouldn't see them.

While he'd been taking the pictures, he gave himself a little time to assess the new arrival. In some ways, the boy looked closer to Lance's age than Roman's, but the kid was tall. Not as tall as Roman, but Sefa had a pretty good idea that improper nutrition and lack of sunlight, hell just lack of an ordinary life had likely stunted his growth. He probably should have been about Roman's height. Sefa had the feeling that were Mox to stay with them for awhile, he'd soon enough go through a growth spurt. He was way too thin, which also made him look even younger.

One arm was raised up on his pillow and Sefa thought at first he had no underarm hair, which could make him younger than he thought, then he looked a little more carefully and saw a hint of stubble. The kid was shaving his underarms. Sefa knew that wasn't a totally ridiculous thing, most wrestlers shaved every single hair off their body, except for their heads and some even did their heads as well. It wasn't mandatory, but when you ended up spending half your day with your head in someone's armpit or them in yours, it was nice not to have to deal with getting crinkly hairs up your nose. And, it gave a sleek, body builder look that wrestling seemed to be all about now. Swimmers also were known to shave themselves clean, to cut down on resistance in the water. Some guys shaved now, just because there were a lot of women who liked not having to deal with excess hair. But Sefa had the uncomfortable feeling none of those were the reasons why Jon was clean shaven. He had a feeling it was to make him appear younger than his age. If he were a girl, he'd have bet money his hair would have been in pigtails.

* * *

The Reigns lived on the outskirts of a small town, while still in Madison County. Like most small towns, the Sheriff's office was also the police station. They had five squad cars, two fairly new, but the other three took turns going in and out of the shop, so they usually ran on four. Aaron drove a Ford Bronco and he did most of his Sheriff business in that. Everyone in the town and the outskirts knew that silver Bronco and knew exactly who it belonged to.

Aaron was about Sefa's age, and was a little worried when Sefa opened up the wrestling training center, Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy, named after the last tag team Sefa had belonged to, before he left the WWF. Aaron had worried that it would attract a bit of a bad crowd. Especially when Sefa said he would be having real overnight camping, meaning people who wanted to wrestle could come and stay on the property and undergo intensive training for 2-4 week sessions. Sefa was sure that Aaron had visions of these young men, some of them possibly even on steroids, all coming to town, taking over the Dusty Horse, the only bar in town and just in general, causing havoc. Sefa had assured him that the campers would not be doing that. He also assured Aaron that everyone would be tested for steroids when they started training under him. And while he couldn't control what what the students did when they weren't being trained, especially the ones who would be taking lessons in the evenings and weekends, rather than actually staying at the camp, he would make sure that everyone signed a consent form saying that if they were caught showing "Behavior unfitting to the reputation of the school," they would be kicked out, they would not have any part of their fees refunded and they would never be allowed to attend the school again. There were a few times in the beginning when Sefa had to enforce this rule, but it didn't take long for the word to go around that the rules at Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy were strictly enforced and Nathan Reigns had no problem throwing anyone out for rule violation and keeping your money. He rarely had to worry about it, since.

Sefa pulled up to the front of the station, parking in one of the slanted spaces, two away from the handicapped spot. It was early Saturday morning, there weren't too many people out and about. Sefa just hoped Aaron was working. _I should have called first_ , he thought as he got out of the car. _I hope I haven't just spun my wheels_. He walked over and looked along the side of the building and was relieved to see the silver Bronco in its usual reserved spot.

He walked into the station, made the usual small talk with Pat, who usually worked the front desk, said hello to a few other officers, then asked if he could talk to Aaron.

"Sure, Mr. Reigns," Pat said, "He's doing paperwork and will probably be thrilled to be interrupted."

"Sefa," Sefa corrected him. Patrick had been one of Marc's crowd back when they both were in high school and still had trouble thinking of Sefa as anyone but Marc's dad, and thus should only be called "Mr. Reigns." "And, thanks."

"Sorry Mr- I mean Sefa," Pat turned bright red and quickly looked away to some papers on the front desk, frowning at them as if they required his attention right that second. He did though, remember to press the button that would let Sefa past the lobby.

Sefa walked into the main area of the police station and headed to the only office in the place and tapped on the door. The front of the office was made of glass, supposedly bullet and shatter proof, but you could see through it just fine. Aaron was at his desk, pen between his teeth, a pile of paper in one hand, another on the desk that he was staring at in a combination of bewilderment and anger. He looked up when Sefa tapped and with the hand that was holding the stack of papers, waved him in.

"Thank god you're here," Aaron said, as he removed the pen from his mouth and dropped the papers in his hand on the pile on the desk, making it even messier. He grabbed the whole pile and put it to the side in a haphazard mess. "Have a seat, Sefa, is everything okay? Lance still doing well?"

Sefa smiled. _They always ask about Lance, first,_ he though as he sat down in one of the two old wooden chairs with upholstery that was so threadbare that it was hard to tell the original color. "Lance is great, you'd never know he'd been sick. Marc, Roman, and Jen are fine, the students are all fine too."

"Well then, what brings you down here?" Aaron asked. "Not that I'm not glad for the interruption. The damned regulations in this state are ridiculous. Every damned bullet has to be accounted for, every time the gun is fired. Going to the range to practice is bad enough, but the other night, Wydell shot a _deer_. He had no choice, a car hit the poor thing and he was going to die anyway, but since he fired his revolver while on duty, it all has to be accounted for, in triplicate. Doing paper work is _not_ why I ran for sheriff." Having aired his grievances about his job to Sefa, at least the Reader's Digest version, he shook his head and smiled. "So, what can I help you with today, Sefa?"

"Lance, Roman and Marc found a stray boy last night." Sefa said, trying to get right to the point.

Aaron shook his head. "Sarah is right, my hearing is going. I would have sworn you said _boy._ You said dog, right?"

"Your hearing is just fine," Sefa assured him. "I did say boy."

"A stray _boy?_ " Aaron looked perplexed. "Suppose you tell me the whole story, starting at the beginning."

"Well, my boys went to see Jurassic Park three last night," Sefa began.

"I hear it isn't as good as the first two, but hey, it's got _dinosaurs,_ " Aaron interrupted. "Who doesn't want to see dinosaurs?"

Sefa gave a snort of laughter before continuing. "Anyway, they were supposed to go to the first evening showing, but, well, things happened and they ended up going to the second showing instead. As they were heading home, all three of my boys say that this other boy almost ran into the car. Just ran out onto the road. Marc slammed on the brakes and didn't hit the kid, but the kid was afraid he was going to get hit, so he took a dive to get away and ended up rolling in the ditch. He's got a sprained ankle and some serious road rash, but that seems to be the worst of it."

"Marc?" Aaron looked bewildered. " _Marc_ almost hit a kid? The way that boy drives at night, I'm amazed the kid didn't have a chance to stroll across the road and stop half way to have a sandwich."

"Well, I'm glad it was Marc and not Mr. Lead-foot who's still driving on a permit. I've got one kid who drives like he learned on a tractor, and the other like he's trying to qualify for NASCAR." Now it was Sefa's turn to shake his head. "Makes me wonder what type of driver Lance is going to be."

"Probably fast, if he knows it's 100% safe to do so. If he's not sure, he'll drive at the speed limit or what the road conditions tell him to do." Aaron grinned. "And he'll probably come in here to tell me what areas the speed limit is too low or too high and have the evidence to back it up. And he'll be right too. That kid is brilliant." He leaned back in his seat, "But, enough about that, tell me more about the 'stray boy.'"

"Well, the boys wanted to call an ambulance. The kid refused to let them. They wanted to take him to the hospital, the kid refused. Of course they weren't going to leave an injured kid in the road, so they brought him home so Jen could take a look."

"Okay, and what happened then?"

Sefa told Aaron the full story, how the kid had tried to tell his sons his name was Bret Hart at first, and how even when Lance nicknamed him Casper, the boy still refused to give out the name he'd been called by. How he had said he couldn't remember "his real name." He explained about the scars and the extreme paleness and how the kid had said he would be honest with them, but wanted to reserve the right to refuse to answer a question if he felt it would endanger himself or anyone else.

"Since I wasn't going to let Lance continue to call him Casper, we let him pick his own name. He came up first with Jon Moxen like the-"

"-Guy in _Varsity Blues_ ," Aaron finished for him, nodding. "Good movie. So, you're calling him Jon?"

"Yeah, but we changed up the last name a bit," Sefa said. "We're calling him Jon Moxley. He wants to be called 'Mox,' and I'm willing to follow that."

"Are you coming here to have him taken in by the state?" Aaron asked. "Because I could make a few calls and get someone to-"

"God no!" It was Sefa's turn to interrupt. "That's exactly what I _don't_ want to happen. Aaron, you know we got the room, we don't mind the kid staying with us, until something better can be figured out, but I'm pretty sure the kid was living with someone for a very long time, someone who didn't have legal custody of him."

"You think he was kidnapped?"

Sefa nodded. "Either that, or, I hate to say it, whoever was supposed to be taking care of him, sold him off. I hope to god it isn't the last one. But the kid's been abused, and he's skittish. I think turning him over to Social Services will kill him. I know he doesn't fully trust us, but he's got no choice until his ankle heals. Maybe by then he'll trust us. But if someone is looking for him..." his voice trailed off.

"You want to know if he's been reported missing," Aaron filled in. "And you want all of this done, well, under the radar, so-to-speak, so the state won't come in and take the kid."

"That's about the size of it," Sefa said. "I mean, if they can't match him up, Jen and I would probably like to foster him. But I don't know if they'll take him away until we're approved."

"You say you think the kid might be around Roman's age?" Aaron asked. When Sefa nodded, he continued, "If he's sixteen, his opinion on the matter will be taken into consideration. I mean, some foster kids are weaned out of the system when they're seventeen, so I think the state is going to be willing to just let him stay with you and Jen, if,that's what all of you want. Have you thought about it, carefully?"

"The kid need a home," Sefa said. "Marc lives at the other house at the camp, so there is an extra bed in Roman's room. Seems like fate to me."

"Yeah, well, I get it, you and Jen both have hearts of gold and you see a kid like that and you want to help, but abused kids come with a bag of problems. And, if he was kidnapped and kept locked up, as you think he was, uhm, you realized that chances are he was..." Aaron's voice trailed off.

"-sexually abused?" Sefa finished for him. "Yeah, that's what I figure. I've been trying not to think about it, but you're right. Why keep a kid hidden away from the world? That isn't a case of someone who always wanting a child, kidnapping a toddler to raise as their own. Or, a non-custodial parent taking the kid away from the custodial parent. You keep a kid hidden because you don't want him out in the world, talking. You keep him because you're using him as some type of exotic toy, and you don't want anyone to know."

"Yeah," Aaron said, shaking his head. "It's a messed up world for sure. And if that is the story with this kid, then nothing is his fault, but that doesn't mean he isn't… well, _tainted_ is the best word I can think of. Did Sarah ever tell you that she used to work in that children's home in Miami?"

"No," Sefa said. "Then again, she's closer to Jen than she is to me, she might have told her." Sarah was Aaron's wife.

"Well, it was a sort of half way place for foster kids. It wasn't quite Juvenile hall, but it wasn't a regular foster home. The place was like a boarding school, except that it ran all year, no summer off. Kids went there because there were no homes to place them in, mostly because of behavioral problems. The place was pretty much a way station to get the kids old enough that they could be release from the system and then the state could wash their hands of them, until they managed to get themselves arrested, which most did. Anyway, Sarah's official title was 'house mother' but her actual job was more of a guard than mother, although she tried to do both for these kids. She told me that the kids who had been sexually abused, often tried to sexually abuse the younger kids. Or just have sex with anyone and everyone. She told me the first week she was there, she was offered more oral sex from kids than she thought possible and a lot of the kids went to great length to describe what they would do to her if she would let them."

"Really?" Sefa asked, genuinely surprised. "I would think that was the _last_ thing they'd want to do. That they'd be grateful to be away from that."

"Some were," Aaron admitted. "Some went the other way and freaked out if you touched them. But, a lot more than you might think, became promiscuous instead. It's not that hard to believe when you realize that a lot of these kids were taught that sex equals love. Sick and twisted love, yes, but child predators groom their victims carefully. And, their victims aren't unable to feel things, good and bad. We all have our triggers and buttons. Touch someone here, and they will feel pleasure, child predators know that, too. And, most of these kids aren't stupid. They have an instinctual feeling what is happening is wrong, but sometimes it feels pretty good. And, in some cases, it even gives them power, possibly the only power they ever have. 'You want me to do this to you? Well, then, I want a new Ipod.' They learn that sex means attention, power, whatever. And, they learn at an early age to think that sex is about all they are good for. Sex might be the only time anyone shows them any affection at all." Aaron paused to look at Sefa steadily. "I am not trying to tell you _not_ to take the kid in, at least until his ankle is healed, but… well, Lance is a really cute kid. And he's smart, and trusting and some people just gravitate to him. I just- I just, well, want you to be careful."

Sefa tried not to gag as his mind processed the information. "Well, I didn't sense that he's a predator, all I got from him was frightened kid, but it's not like he's been staying with us for awhile. I'll have a talk with him at some point, see what I can find out, get a sense of what direction he flies and make it clear if he even thinks of messing with any of my boys, or any of the campers, he'll be in big trouble."

"Okay," Aaron said. "And I will see what I can find out, but I can't do it with the vague information you've given me."

"I do have some pictures," Sefa said, as he pulled the digital camera from his pocket. "They're on there, I admit, I have no clue how to get them off the camera, I was hoping you'd know, because I don't want Lance to see them on there."

"I'm as backwards as you, when it comes to this digital stuff. Don't let the computer on my desk fool you, all I know is how to turn it on and access a few data bases. He picked up the phone on his desk and punched a number. "Pat, get in here, we need your help."

Patrick, as it turned out, was very familiar with both computers and digital cameras. He took Lance's camera away and brought it back a few minutes later. "I took off the pictures of the boy." he said. "So, Lance won't know they were on there. Erased them right off the drive. All his other pictures are there." He looked over at Aaron, "I saved digital copies of them on my computer, but here are print outs." He handed his boss a folder that contained the three pictures of Mox, printed in color on photo quality paper.

Aaron accepted the folder. "Did you want print copies too, Sefa?"

Sefa shook his head. "No, that's the last thing I want. I'm hoping Mox never has to see those."

Aaron opened up the folder and looked at the first picture, Mox sleeping on his back, one arm curved over his head, mouth open, the fine line of drool shining from his mouth, across his cheek and to his ear. "Yeah, I can see why. That would be pretty embarrassing." He closed the folder and looked at Sefa, "These are okay, but I really wish we had one with his eyes open."

"They're blue," Sefa said. "Or at least they seemed blue in the kitchen."

"Yeah, I'll make a note of that, but sometimes it's hard to ID a person when their eyes are shut," Aaron explained. "I know scientists say that eyes are just eyes and not some magical doorway to the soul, but there is something about eyes. People notice them. So, yeah, I'll do what I can with these, but why don't you see if you can't get a shot of him when he's awake."

"I'll try," Sefa said, rising from his seat. "Worst come to worst, I'll try to get a candid shot or two, if Lance will let me use his camera."

"You can take them with a camera with film," Aaron reminded him. "The drugstore still does send real film out to be developed."

"Yeah, but this is so much easier." Sefa grinned and put his hand out as Aaron rose and shook it. "See what you can find out, okay? If the kid was kidnapped, his real family might be out there thinking he's dead."

"Yeah," Aaron said. "And I will keep you informed of any information I find out. Try to get that picture for me as soon as you can, in the meantime, I'll see what I can do with this. Oh, and if you can, see if the kid will let himself come down here and be printed."

"Why?" Sefa sat down again.

"Because there is a database for missing children fingerprints," Aaron said. "After Adam Walsh and all, schools started sending kids home with ID kits, and one of the things in the kit was a finger printing kit. Their was a little ink pad and a place to put all the finger prints in their own little boxes, you know, left thumb, left index finger, so on and so forth. They also gave a wipe or two so the kids wouldn't get ink all over the house." Aaron paused, looking at Sefa, his brows furrowed. "Your kids should have had gotten them, we hand them out here, too. I mean, it might have been when Lance was out of school, being sick, but Roman and Marc should have."

Sefa thought and remembered something, he had been on the road a lot back then, he probably missed Marc's ID kit, but he did remember Roman talking about something that could have been that. And Roman and Jen had sat down after dinner and filled out a questionnaire. "Did it come with a bunch of questions like favorite colors, favorite foods, left handed or right handed, so on and so forth? Almost seemed like a dating application. 'My son loves long walks on the beach and football,' sort of thing?"

Aaron nodded. "That's it. The more information we can get about a child who goes missing, the better. Parents were asked to make note every day of what their kid wore and to take frequent pictures. And the kids filled out the "Things I like" forms too. While it may seem that knowing a kid's favorite ice cream is Rocky Road is not important, you never know what can happen. An officer could be at the ice cream parlor and notice a kid that seems sort of familiar, eating Rocky Road ice cream and that could lead to getting that kid home to his custodial parent."

"Jen always handled that stuff," Sefa admitted. "Like coming up with the safe-word in case a stranger ever tried to say he was sent by us. Not that we worried about that. The kids all know our friends and the people who worked for the academy and those are the only people we'd have sent."

"Kids often get abducted from people who know them," Aaron pointed out. "And having a safe-word never hurts. I just hope Jen didn't use Unicorn. You'd be _amazed_ at how many parents use Unicorn. Especially parents of girls."

"Jen knew better than that," Sefa said. "Well, I won't keep you any longer, Aaron. You seemed to be having so much fun with that paperwork, I wouldn't want to keep you away from it." He once again rose from his seat.

Aaron rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Yeah, the fun never stops."

End Chapter Two

* * *

 **Author's Notes: Okay, if you haven't figured out who the mystery guy is... you should know by now.**

 **Thank you to everyone who followed, favored, read, and especially those who took the time to review. You don't know how much that means to me. It's awesome. I half expected to put this up and to hear... nothing. Wrestling fanfiction isn't want it was when I was here before.**

 **I need to explain things and again, if you're not into Stephen King type notes at the end, where he tells you a little bit about how the magic happens (at least in his books, I'm not sure if I have magic. Writing is hard for me) feel free to skip over this.**

 **Lance is purely the creation of me for role playing, and my husband helped play him too, to flesh him out. He came about by accident. There really _is_ a Lance Anoa'i and someone mistakenly told me he was Roman's younger brother. And I kinda liked that idea, Roman having a little brother. When that turned out to be not true (They are related, but they're cousins) I still decided that for my purposes, it didn't matter, I could give Roman a younger brother named Lance. I don't write fanfiction about real people, I write it about characters. So, in my world, Roman Reigns has a brother named Lance. But the personality of Lance is completely mine and my husband's creation. As time goes on, you're going to find out he's also a large and absolutely perfect example of those times when life imitates art, but we're not there, yet. **

**Marc... well, you might say he's slightly based on Matt (Rosie) Joe Anoa'i's brother. Sort of but not really. About the only thing I took was that there is a significant difference in age between the two of them. Marc does not seem to be cursed with the weight issues that Rosie suffered from, that eventually took his life at such a young age.**

 **And, I am sure at this point, by the stranger's chosen name, you've all figured out who he is... if you hadn't already.**

 **Before I close this out, I again want to thank everyone who took the time to read, review, favor, follow, etc, it means the world to me. I wasn't sure what was going to happen if I came back and started writing.**


	3. Chapter 3

_Original characters are products of my imagination and any resemblance to real people, living or dead is purely coincidental. Characters that aren't mine, belong to the WWE and the actors who play them. No, I really don't see the point of a disclaimer, but I really hate how centering doesn't work for the first few lines of the story, so I put something up here, just to stop that._

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

 **{o}**

The Boy woke up about two in the afternoon, and was immediately on guard. At first he didn't remember where he was, or how he'd gotten here. He looked around frantically and spotted the other bed, neatly made with a Miami Dolphins bedspread. A single bed like the one he was sleeping in. And all around the walls surrounding this other bed were pictures of football teams, football players and football pendants. A shelf along one wall held a number of trophies that all seemed dedicated to football. The boy was even more confused, but then he started to sit up and as he did, his ankle let him know it was none too happy, and memory flooded over him. He was with this... family. The oldest son, Marc, had almost hit him with the car, which was entirely _not_ Marc's fault. The Boy had decided to cross the road at a curve, and hadn't been looking like he should have. But, they brought him home, where their mother, Jen, had wrapped up his ankle and gave him breakfast, which was delicious.

 _And, I have a new name,_ the boy said to himself. _I'm Jon Moxley now. But people can call me Mox. The Sefa guy was, and Marc, Roman, and the Lance kid were too._ The mom, Jen, seemed to prefer to call him Jon, but she'd been really nice to him, so he didn't mind. She could call him Jon, it wasn't like Jon was a bad name. He liked it. Not as much as Mox, but close enough.

He inched his way to sitting up higher in the bed to look around. His bed and the other were separated by a battered nightstand with a lamp on it. On his side was a glass with water in it. The moment Mox saw it, he realized he was thirsty and drank it down. When he put it back, he realized he now had another problem and that was that he really needed to go to the bathroom.

Looking over the sides of the bed, he saw a pair of crutches on the floor, just close enough so he could bend over and reach them. He'd used crutches before. A few times actually, when he had a broken leg, which he'd had more than once. He remembered the first time his father had broken his leg. That was when he went outside. They were renting a house in a pretty quiet area, as most of the houses they lived in seemed to be, and even though he knew better by then to ever _think_ he could get away from his father, he did miss being outside. So one afternoon, when he was allowed to walk around the house, instead of being in the basement, his father had fallen asleep on the couch while watching one of _those_ movies, the ones that "Timmy hadn't liked watching. Sam was gone, so he had decided to go outside. He wasn't going to run away, he just wanted to sit and enjoy the sun. Just for a few minutes, but the sun had made him sleepy and stupid and he'd fallen asleep sitting on the stairs, leaning against the wooden slats that held up the railing. His father had found him and been furious. He'd broken his leg to "give him a taste" of what would happen if he ever tried to escape again. Mox-then-called-Timmy tried to explain that he hadn't tried to run away, he just wanted to sit outside for a bit, but father wasn't having any of that. He grabbed him and threw him down the stairs into the basement, then came down and hung him up by the pipe so only the tips of his toes touched the ground, then his father kicked him, several times, with his heavy boots on, kicked him until his right leg made a cracking sound. And then he left him there for what seemed like forever, the pain and misery making time move both slow and fast. He knew he went in and out of consciousness more than once, because he would jerk awake in pain, as his legs both began trying to find some purchase on the tips of his toes, to keep his arms from aching. Even just pointing the toes of his right foot, sent shooting pain up through his leg, into his thigh, through his whole body, resulting in what seemed like an explosion of red pain, right behind his eyes and he'd gasp, fighting to breathe, fighting to diminish the pain.

Sam, was the one who set "Timmy's" leg. Sam had been a paramedic in the army, or at least that's what his father and Sam told him. Having the leg set hurt like hell, and then Sam had splinted it and wrapped it. It took over almost three months to heal, but it did heal. Although, sometimes, when the weather was cold or rainy, it throbbed a bit. Most of the time, Sam was the one who got to deal with "Timmy's" broken bones because it wasn't like he could go to the doctor. His father told him how lucky he was to have Sam to fix him up. "If I take you to the hospital, they will know what type of boy you are, and they will lock you up for the rest of your life." _No one can ever know,_ Mox told himself.

He grabbed the crutches, and used them to rise off the bed. He was wearing a pair of sweatpants, but they weren't the ones he'd been wearing when Roman had gone down into the ditch to help him. These were bigger and baggier. Mox was confused until he remembered Roman helping him upstairs and giving them to him. For a moment, Mox had panicked, thinking Roman might want to… well, do _stuff_ with him, or have him do stuff to Roman, but Roman just said that Mox's sweatpants were really dirty and gross and he should changed into these clean ones, so Jen wouldn't get upset that Mox had gotten the sheets all dirty. Then, he'd gone into the bathroom that was right off the room, and changed himself. By the time he came out, Mox was in the clean sweatpants that smelled like a combination of laundry detergent, Roman himself, and sunshine, if sunshine had a scent. But that's what it reminded Mox of, if sunshine and good air had a smell, it would be like this. "You should get some sleep, you look beat," Roman suggested. Mox had been sitting on the bed and when Roman suggested it, he just sorta flopped over and brought his injured ankle up carefully. Roman had stared at him for a minute, then came over with a pillow from his own bed. He helped Mox get under the covers, and then put the extra pillow at the foot of the bed, to elevate Mox's bad ankle. He did all of this in a matter-of-fact way, and Mox had the feeling Roman was the type of guy who would never even dream of doing… _stuff_ with him, or asking Mox to do stuff to him. Which made Mox like Roman even more. And, made him more determined than ever to get away before he hurt these folks.

He went into the bathroom and used the toilet first, being careful to balance on one crutch, take care of business and not make any type of mess. When he was done with that, he hobbled over to the sink to wash his hands. There was a toothbrush holder on the wall, and one toothbrush was in it, a blue one that looked a bit worn. But on the top of the sink was a brand new toothbrush, still in its package and someone had taken one of those special magic markers that could write on plastic, and written "Jon" on the clear part that kept it covered, but still allowed you to see the toothbrush. It was a yellow toothbrush, not his favorite color, he was amazed and a bit touched that someone, likely Jen, gone to the bother to make sure _he_ had a toothbrush. As he looked around the bathroom, he noticed there were two towel rods along one wall, near the old fashioned claw foot bathtub, that also had a shower and a shower curtain. On one towel rod were two towels that looked as if they had been used at least once and then rehung by someone who hadn't been too concerned about being neat. On the other rack were two more towels, white and fluffy. On top of the towel were two just white and fluffy wash cloths. Someone had pinned a piece of paper on one of the towels, and printed in the same style as the printing on the toothbrush, the same thing. "Jon." That really _did_ get to him, and he sniffled hard. These were _good_ people. These were the type of people you saw on regular movies, where they all might argue and fight at times, but they also loved each other and had each other's back.

His father had often told him that decent families, like the ones you'd see on movies didn't exist. That families might play that game in public, but once they got behind closed doors, well, it wasn't much different than what went on with the two of them, and in some cases even worse. And that was one thing "Timmy" had spent some time wondering about. How it be worse?

While part of him _had_ suspected his father might be full of shit when it came to families, he was a little more sure of it now. He had a feeling he could go down into the basement of this house, if they even _had_ a basement, and there would not be a bedroom with a king sized bed, neat and clean, but only having three walls that were like a bedroom the rest of it left open with the cement walls, most of the time gray, but sometimes painted some color like the green of a rotting lime, or a yellow, that should have brightened it up, but instead only served to show how depressing it was. He didn't think he'd see chains on the pipes, either. He bet Sefa had never chained one of his sons to a pipe and left him to dangle. Never made him do… _stuff_ to him or anyone else that was over, like all those strangers Sam came home with. Sefa's sons had seemed too calm and relaxed around their father, and Jen was just too nice to tolerate that stuff. His father and Sam sometimes had women stay with them, but they hadn't been very motherly. Mox couldn't imagine Jen doing most the things to him that _those_ women had.

 _You've_ _ **got**_ _to get out of here,_ He told himself as he opened up the toothbrush and used some toothpaste in a big tube on the counter around the sink. C-O-L-G-A-T-E, the tube said. "Timmy" had been expected to brush his teeth, but nobody gave him a new toothbrush very often, and sometimes he ran out of toothpaste and it was quite a while before he got more, so he would brush his teeth with plain, or if he could get it, salt water. He had a feeling that around here, they never ran out of toothpaste and brushes were change regularly. _The longer you stay here, the more risk you put these folks under._ Is it fair that they could die because of _him?_

When he went back into the bedroom, he saw a couple pairs of jeans, a couple pairs of sweat pants, and some T-shirts, that weren't brand new, but had been washed and smelled like the sweatpants Roman had given him, minus the Roman smell. Sunshine, fresh air, and laundry detergent. They were on a chair, near his bed. There was a piece of paper on top of the pile, but it said more than just his name:

 _Jon,  
These looked to be about your size. I'm not sure on the jeans, but I think the sweatpants are workable until we can get you some better clothing. And the T-shirts should fit well enough._

It took him awhile to work his way through the note, it had some words he'd never read before, and he had to sound them out, syllable by syllable, and try to see how they would fit in the context of what he was reading. But when he finished, Mox shook his head in disbelief. These people didn't know him from shit, didn't know that he actually _was_ shit, and here they were being all nice to him, making sure he had clothing to wear, a toothbrush, towels so he could wash and then dry himself. _All the more reason to get the hell out of here,_ he told himself.

He didn't want to be wearing Roman's sweat pants when he left, so he looked at the pile and found a smaller pair that looked a little more worn and changed into them, and grabbed the first T-shirt on the pile. It was a navy blue T-shirt, with Bret "the Hitman" Hart on it and Mox was amazed. He'd _always_ wanted a wrestling T-shirt, in particular a Bret Hart shirt, and his father had always told him no. He got most of "Timmy's" clothing by raiding clothing donation boxes. "Timmy" often ended up wearing clothing that was too big for him, because clothing that was too big gave him the appearance of being younger and more vulnerable. Even when he was younger, his father liked him in shirts that the sleeves came over his wrists and hands, and jeans he had to roll up, least he trip over them.

He got out into the hall and started carefully making his way down the stairs, shifting the two crutches to one arm so he could use the banister with the free hand. His ankle felt a lot better than it had before it had been bandaged up and the sleep had helped too, so maybe he _could_ get away from here. He'd have to steal these crutches, but they did say they had several pairs, so maybe they'd forgive him for his theft.

He found his way back into the kitchen, where he saw Jen sitting at the kitchen table, stacks of paper around her. When he hobbled in, she rose from the chair and gave him a warm smile. "You're up," she said, as if this was a fantastic bit of news that just made her entire day, which left Mox feeling bewildered. "I wasn't sure if you'd sleep all day. Have a seat and let me get you something to eat. How about a sandwich and some soup? I made beef vegetable soup the other day, and I have some in the refrigerator, I can just heat right up. Take a seat. Would you like milk? Or perhaps some iced tea?"

"Coffee?" he asked, looking hopeful.

"Are you sixteen?" she asked, pausing from her path to the refrigerator to get him something to eat.

His first instinct was to say he was thirteen, because his father and Sam told everyone that was his age since he was thirteen. Nobody wanted older boys, his father had told him. Once you get to a certain age, you're useless to the type of people his father and Sam had him "working" with. But then he realized that Jen didn't expect him to look and act younger. "I-I'm pretty sure I'll be sixteen this year." He thought long and hard, trying to remember his birthday. It wasn't as if he'd ever celebrated it, at least not with his father. Birthdays were terrible things to his father, which meant they were terrible things for him. "I think it's in December some time, but I'm not sure."

"Well, the rule in this house is that you don't get to drink coffee until you're sixteen," she said. "If you want something hot, I can make hot tea for you."

Mox thought about protesting, then changed his mind. "I'll have iced tea then." He knew he really should be figuring out how to leave this place unnoticed, but his stomach told him that staying to at least have a sandwich wouldn't be _that_ bad. It was an eating day after all, and the breakfast had been wonderful, but he was hungry again. So, he sat at the table and watched as Jen heated up a bowl of soup in the microwave and made him a thick, turkey and cheese sandwich. She even sliced the cheese with a knife off of a block, instead of unwrapping it from clear plastic. She cut the sandwich on an angle and arranged it on a plate with the bowl of soup in the middle and put it down in front of him.

He looked at his lunch and began to blink rapidly. It looked like a meal you'd get in one of those places where people made food for you, a _restaurant_ , they were called. The bowl and plate matched each other and the sandwich cut at an angle so it looked like two triangles rather than two rectangles. She served him the iced tea in a clear glass with some ice in it, and it was cold enough that condensation was forming on the outside. When Jen saw him blinking, she frowned. "Is everything all right?" she asked him. "The tea is sweet tea, we have unsweetened too, if you prefer it. We also have 7 grain bread if you'd rather have that."

He had no clue what 7 grain bread was. "No, this is fine," he said, refusing to meet her eyes. "It's just… well, _pretty._ It's all arranged nice and stuff." He drew in a deep breath, steadying himself and then looked at her.

Jen smiled, a faintly pleased look on her face. "Well, thank you. It's nice to have someone appreciate my efforts, but really, it's just some soup and a sandwich." She motioned towards the plate, "Please, start eating before it gets cold."

The soup and sandwich were even better than the breakfast from earlier. The bread was cut thicker than the bread his father bought and tasted so different, that if he'd just been given a piece to eat plain, he might have thought it wasn't even bread at all, but some type of savory pastry. The turkey was thick too, three thick slices that were oddly shaped, not perfectly round like the turkey his father would buy in plastic packages. There were a few times when his father had brought home a whole turkey and cooked it, or sometimes if there was a woman staying with them, she would cook the turkey. Mox had a pretty good idea that this turkey in his sandwich was cut right off a turkey. And it tasted better than any turkey Mox had ever eaten. "Did you cook this?" he asked Jen, who was sitting at the other end of the table with her papers again. "Like cook a _whole turkey_ and slice this off of it?"

She looked up. "Yes, I did. Is it all right?"

He nodded. "It's really _good_. You should run a _restaurant._ "

She laughed. "Thank you, but running the mess hall is enough for me, even though now I run it more in the paperwork sense, than in the actual cooking sense."

He nodded, but was surprise. The only time he'd ever heard the term "mess hall" was when Sam was on one of his long rambles about being in the army. He'd say things like, "The chow in the mess hall was awful." Was this place an army base? He didn't think so, but maybe there was an army base near by she worked for, but the way Sam talked about mess hall food, had no comparison to what he was eating now. He tried the soup and found it was delicious too, like the bread. He had to control himself from wolfing this whole meal down. He knew it was the best food he had eaten since he'd gone to live with his father. When he was done with the first bowl of soup, Jen even asked him if he wanted _another_ bowl! He tried not to look dazed, but nodded. She brought over the pan that had been on the stove and served him another bowl. When he finished that, she said she would give him another bowl if he was still hungry, but she wanted him to save room for _dinner._ He was pretty full by then, anyway, so he nodded, even though he had no intention of being here for dinner.

When the meal was finished he got up and got his crutches under him. "Is it okay if I go outside for a bit?" he asked, casually as he could manage. "I want to get air and, you know, practice on the crutches."

She had agreed he could go out, but before she would let him, she insisted on putting sunscreen all over any part of him that was exposed to the sun, his face, his hands, arms, and his feet, gave him a baseball cap to wear on his head, a pair of flip flops for his feet, and a pair of sunglasses with extremely dark lenses. "You sure have a lot of extra clothing," he blurted out before he could stop himself.

She shrugged. "You're smaller than Roman, and I've saved the best of Roman's clothing for Lance. Plus, we always seem to have campers leaving clothing behind. Most of it, we donate if they haven't contacted us within a year, so we usually have a variety of clothing around."

 _Campers?_ Mox thought. _This is a camp? What type of camp?_ He wanted to ask, but was afraid he'd sound stupid, so he nodded. _Who cares?_ He told himself _, you're not going to be here that long._ The odd thing though, was that he found he _did_ care, he _did_ want to know more about these people. And that, was dangerous. He _really_ had to get out of here.

With a warning not to exhaust himself, Jen sat down and started working on the pile of papers. Mox made his way through the kitchen, through the mudroom and outside. It was a sunny, late afternoon, and his eyes, so used to darkness, took a pretty long time to adjust, even with the dark glasses. He could hear voices coming from around the side of the house, Sefa's being the loudest.

"When I tell you to run those ropes, you _run those ropes!"_ Sefa was almost bellowing. "You paid good money to be here and I promised that if you listened to me, you'd have results. So, listen to me, and start _running_ those ropes. Skins run north and south, shirts run east and west! What are you waiting for, ladies, _do_ it!"

Mox's curiosity got the better of him, and instead of walking towards the street, as he meant to, and walked around to the side of the house and gasped at what he saw.

Wrestling rings! Four of them, were in the back, along with other buildings. But the rings were what really caught his attention. Some might have thought they were for boxing, but Mox just _knew_ they were for wrestling. And there were guys running the ropes, in both directions, passing each other smoothly. It was almost hypnotic to watch, one group going east to west, the other north and south. At almost identical times, they would run and turn, so they bounced off the ropes, then ran to the other side and did the same thing. If it wasn't for the fact that they had different hair and skin colors, different builds, and half were wearing shirts of one type, and the other half were bare chested, it might have looked like a machine working smoothly and efficiently

"That's more like it!" Sefa was bellowing. "You're looking good, but I think you can speed it up! C'mon, my Mother in law is in her '70s and she could run those ropes faster than you are!"

From the moment Mox had first seen Sefa and then when he had heard him speak, Mox had the eerie feeling he knew who this guy was. Which wasn't necessarily a good thing, usually if he recognized someone, it was because they were one of his father or Sam's friends and "Timmy" was expected to be very _nice_ to these friends. But he'd been pretty sure Sefa wasn't one of his father or Sam's friends, because, well, because he just _wasn't,_ he didn't give off that overly eager and maybe even a little afraid air those guys did. But now, with the wrestling ring, everything clicked into place.

Sefa was older and his hair had gone mostly gray, but Mox knew that this man was once half of the Tag-team, Samoan Pride. He had wrestled in the beginning of his career as Nathan Reigns and tried to downplay that he was Samoan. Then, something must have happened because he joined up with another Samoan wrestler, Aleki Safuta, they became Samoan Pride and they were _really_ good. They'd gone from the tiny promotions to ECW and moved to the WWF. They were on several of the video tapes his father had brought home for him to watch, and their matches were among his favorites. Now, Mox was ashamed he hadn't recognized him. Sure he was older and all, and a lot of those video tapes were pretty worn, but if Mox really respected him, shouldn't he have been able to see through that and see who Sefa was? _They never told me their last name._

He found himself heading towards the rings, towards Sefa, but stopped himself. What was he _doing?_ He had to get away from here, not hang out. Reluctantly, he turned and started up the long driveway, to the road. His plans were simple, one he got on the road and passed the house and the surrounding land, he'd try to hitch a ride to get as far away from this place as possible. His father was probably already trying to track him down and once he got close enough, Mox knew he would be putting himself and the Reigns in danger. It was bad enough that _he_ was in danger, but he thought if he kept moving, he might be able to beat the odds. Staying in one place was bad. Endangering a family that had been so nice to him was even worse. He might be nothing. He might be _less_ than nothing. He might even be the miserable piece of shit his father and Sam would tell him he was every time he didn't act the way they wanted him to, but he wasn't going to stoop to getting innocent people killed over him.

He made it to the end of the driveway, and started down the road, dismayed that there wasn't more traffic on it. _So? Just keep walking. Get far enough away and you'll be on a major road where you can catch a ride._ He knew about hitchhiking because one time, the old van that his father owned, died and they were far away from anywhere. Sam hadn't been with them, which was rare. His father had pulled him out from the box in the back and told him they would have to hitch a ride into town. "Timmy" had been the one to put out his thumb while his father hid behind a grove of trees. When a car stopped, "Timmy" had pretended to have a problem getting the door open, and his father caught up and they both got into the car. The driver at first seemed disappointed, but his father talked to the guy driving the car and let him know that he was willing to "pay" for the ride, by letting the driver "babysit" for "Timmy" while his father made arrangements to get the van towed and fixed.

Timmy-now-Mox had not liked being "babysat." He did not want to be "Babysat" now, either, but Mox realized he might have to in order to get away. He knew that in order to keep moving, he might have to let a lot of strangers "babysit" him. But, maybe, someday he could stop. Someday he _would_ look too old. Maybe, when that time came, his father and Sam would stop looking for him, and he could find a place where he could get a job or something, and maybe even an apartment? _Maybe I could have a life of my own?_

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn't know someone had come up behind him, until he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a voice going, "Where are you going, Mox?"

He turned slowly and realized it was Roman. _Just my luck_ , he thought. "Uh, I was just, uh, taking a walk," he lied.

Roman's expression was somewhere between annoyance and smirking and he shook his head. "I'm not buying it. You're trying to run off, and I want to know why."

Oh god, did he have to be so… _reasonable_ about this? Mox would have preferred that Roman tried to boss him around to get him to come back home, and then Mox could get mad at him and go off on him, and maybe Roman would realize Mox was bad news and send him away. "Why do _you_ care, you Happy Asshole?" he snapped.

"Happy Asshole?" Mox hoped Roman would get mad at the insult, but to his shock, Roman laughed. "That's a good one, you'll have to tell my dad that one. He'll use it on the students," He stood up straighter and imitated his father, dead on. "Why aren't you running those ropes, you Happy Asshole?" He grinned at Mox, dropping the imitation of his Sefa. "Yeah, tell him that one. But be smart, don't tell him when Mom is around."

Mox shrugged. He'd been called a Happy Asshole most of his life, whenever he'd been caught doing something that he thought would be okay, but wasn't. Like drinking the last beer in the refrigerator, "Who told you that was for you, you Happy Asshole." Or, making himself a sandwich, especially when his father had instituted the "Eat one day, but not the next" rule to try to keep him looking younger. "Hey, who told you to eat today, you Happy Asshole?" It was usually accompanied by a slap across the face, kick in the leg, or a punch to the chest.

"But, to get back to the point, why are you running off?" Roman asked him. "I think we've been pretty decent to you. My mom bandaged your ankle, and made you breakfast. You slept in my room. You claim you don't have a home or a place to go, so why are you treating us like crap by trying to disappear without telling anyone?" Then, as if to lighten his words, he added, "You Happy Asshole."

Mox could help but grin at the insult at the end, but he also heard more than annoyance and irritation in Roman's voice. Roman was _hurt._ Roman was offended and _hurt_ that after he and his family had showed him, some _nobody_ , so much compassion, that Mox would reward them by trying to run off instead. "I'm not trying to be a jerk," he said, staring down at his toes, in the cheap yellow flip flops.

"Look, if there is some place you really have to be, just tell us," Roman said. "We'll take you there. Unless it's someplace bad, like a swamp full of gators. Mom and Dad won't drop you off there, but if there's someplace else you're so eager to get to, just _tell_ us. If it's a safe place, we'll take you there."

"There's no place I need to 'get to'," Mox blurted, before he could stop himself. "There are people I need to get away _from._ "

"The people you lived with before we found you." Roman said, his voice very matter-of-fact.

"Yeah," Mox said, looking a little surprised. "How did you guess?"

Roman looked at him and rolled his eyes. "Mox, you don't even want to tell us your name."

"I _forgot_ my name!" Mox interrupted, sounding a little hotter than he meant to.

"Maybe you forgot the name you were born with, but whoever you were living with before we found you, called you _something."_ Roman said. "And that's who you don't want to find you, whoever you have been living with. Whoever took you from where you belonged and made you forget your real name. Am I close?"

Was he that transparent? Mox shook his head, not to disagree, but because he was shocked. "Yeah," he said. "B-but I don't think I ever really belonged anywhere."

"What do you mean?" Roman asked, his brows furrowing. "Everyone belongs _somewhere."_

Mox shook his head. Memories were poking at the corners of his mind, sharp memories, like pinpricks in cloth. Hidden from plain sight, but there all the same. Something had happened. When he was younger. Something he had fought and fought against remembering and then a voice shouted in his head, his father's voice.

" _Stop that goddamned sniveling!"_ his father had screamed. Was he chained in a basement? No, he had been lying down, he must have been in one of the vans his father always bought. Always white, always used.

He'd been in the box in the back, the box he was almost always forced to be in, whenever they traveled far. It was a metal box, fixed to the sides of the inside of the van. In the winter, it was freezing, in the summer it was boiling hot. He never liked the box, but this was really bad. Why was this time so bad? Then, he remembered he'd been more terrified than ever in this box.

 _It must have been my first time,_ he thought. He had a vague memory of doing something before, walking somewhere, and the van pulling up and the driver, the man who would later be his father, telling him that he was supposed to get in the van and he would take him home to- to- _someone._ A woman. His mother? Yes. His mother. He couldn't remember her name or what she looked like, but he remembered the man who would one day be his father told him he would take him home to his mother, that she had sent him to get him.

 _He had stared at the man, and thought he saw something familiar about him. His mother had men come over to the house a lot. Sometimes they were friends of hers, sometimes they were "Not important." "Not important" meant that they would go into his mother's room and make noises that he hadn't understood then. He remembered this guy was "Not important" and the guy who sat next to him, the guy he would later come to know as Sam had been with them. The three of them had gone into his mother's room together. The boy hadn't really cared. But he did recognize him now and was a little surprised his mother sent him instead of coming herself or sending one of her friends. Usually, if someone was "not important" his mother got them in and out of the apartment as fast as possible. But, maybe these guys had become friends with his mother? Enough to send them to pick him up from school?_

 _He'd gotten into the van. There was no back seat, just the box and some racks screwed into the walls and the floor, with shelves on them. Shelves with milk crates full of wires and things. He would later come to realize the things in the crates didn't really do anything. All the stuff in the back was a backdrop, to draw attention away from the box, if anyone saw the van back doors opened, the assumption would be that this van was used to do some type of construction or electrical work, and the valuable tools were kept locked up until needed. Nobody would think there was a person lying in there._

 _But this first time, they let him sit_ _ **on**_ _the box for awhile. Then, he started to realize they weren't headed home. He tried to object, and that's when Sam came back, grabbed him, fought him, and threw him into the box. He had fought Sam, but he was so young and_ _ **so**_ _little then and Sam was_ _ **so**_ _much bigger. Sam put these plastic things around his feet and hands and tightened them so he had to keep his legs together and keep his hands behind him. And they dug into his skin and it hurt. Then, Sam closed the lid of the box and he was in almost total blackness, except for a tiny bit of light that came from the faint crack between the lid and the box._

 _They drove a long time, and he was screaming and crying that he wanted to go home. He wanted to be with his Mommy, and he wanted these guys to take him home right that second. He felt as if he screamed and cried for hours. And he might very well have. Because he felt the van stop, and a few minutes later, the box was opened, and his "father," who was then just a scary stranger, was staring down at him, looking furious._

" _Stop that goddamned sniveling!" his father-to-be screamed, and the boy could feel his face sprayed with spit from his mouth. "If you don't shut the fuck up right now, I will beat the ever-loving **fuck** out of you and break every bone in your body, you got it?" _

" _I want my **Mommy**!" he had screamed, even though the words the man had spoken frightened him._

" _Oh yeah?" his future father sneered. "Well, your "mommy' doesn't want_ _ **you.**_ _"_

 _That had quieted him and he stared back at this virtual stranger, who would come to be one of the only two consistent people in his life._

" _Yeah, kid, your mother doesn't want you. She said you're a bad boy and she's tired of you being a pain in her ass. She wants to be able to go out, party, get high and have fun, but no, she has to find people to watch you first. Or she just has to stay home instead. She gives up **everything** for you. And how do you reward her? You demand her attention all the time, you do bad things. She can't stand being around you anymore, so she sold you to me."_

 _He had wanted to scream, yell, deny what this man was saying, but he could remember things. Like once, he was trying to help clear the table after dinner, and he'd dropped a glass that shattered all over the floor, and his mom had been really upset. She had screamed at him, called him clumsy. He remembered that time, not long ago, where he had a bad nightmare and had peed his bed, and how angry she was, yelling at him, telling him that she thought he was a big boy, but she guessed he was just still a baby, a baby who wet the bed. "Do I need to put you back in diapers?" she had shrieked at him._

 _He could remember a lot of times like this. Times when he broke things, sometimes accidentally, sometimes on purpose, because he was angry at her. And she would scream at him, tell him he was a bad boy. Had he finally pushed it too far? Had he finally forced her to do_ something _and that_ something _was to sell him to this guy who was staring down at him?_

Part of him had broken that day. Not all of him, he still had plenty of fight as his "father" would find out in the days to come, but the breaking of him had started with a large crack. He stopped screaming, he stopped begging for his mother. Instead he quietly whimpered and instead of sobbing loudly, he just let the tears fall. He'd broken enough that his "father" knew he'd break further, it was just a matter of time.

"I think my mother sold me," he said to Roman, his voice a whisper. And he felt so vulnerable then, so weak. Here was this _Roman_ guy, tall and muscular. _Roman_ with his older and younger brother and their parents who loved all three of them. A mom that made homemade soup and really good sandwiches. A father who was a fucking wrestling legend. _Roman_ , growing up in a place that taught wrestling. _Roman Reigns_ , the kid with everything and him? Mox? His own _mother_ hadn't wanted him. He looked down at his feet, staring at the flip flops and his toes, mortified to admit to someone who had _so_ much that he was _so_ inferior that even his _mother_ hadn't wanted him. His mother had sold him. Sold him to someone who had hurt him, someone who had beaten him, broken his bones and done far worse. Who forced him to do things to him and Sam and to anyone else they wanted. Who told him that satisfying them was the only thing good about him. And that was all he was good _for_. He was good at doing something horrible.

Roman stared at him in disbelief. "Your mother _sold_ you?" he said, his voice stunned. "She _sold_ you? Like you were… a used _car_ or something?"

Mox nodded, keeping his eyes downcast for the most part, only sneaking little looks at Roman, expecting to see disgust on his face for someone like Mox. Someone so terrible that his mother hadn't been able to stand having him. But he saw Roman didn't look disgusted, if anything he looked angry. "See?" Mox said, his voice rising slightly. "I don't have any place I belong. I don't have a mother like yours, or a father like yours. I'm _not_ a good person, I'm so bad my mother didn't even want me, and my so-called father only used me!"

"Look," Roman said, shaking his head. "If your mother sold you, that doesn't mean there was anything wrong with _you_ , that means something was really wrong with _her._ "

Now Mox did look up at Roman and held his gaze steady. "How do _you_ know?" he demanded. "I was a bad kid. I _did_ stuff. I broke things, I think I'd sometimes do other stuff, I can't remember what, but I don't think I was as surprised as… someone like you would have been when I found out my father had bought me." He did not mention wetting the bed. He couldn't bring himself to admit he had been _that_ bad.

"Your father?" Roman asked, head tipped to one side. "You've been living with your _father?"_

"That's what he told me to call him," Mox admitted. "I don't think he was my, you know, _real_ father, like fucked my mom, real father. He told me the courts gave him to me, after my mom sold me."

"So he said he adopted you, huh?" Roman's eyes narrowed and he shook his head. "I don't believe that. Adoption doesn't work like that. Human beings aren't supposed to be bought and sold. And before he would have been allowed to adopt you, the state would have sent someone over to make sure he could take care of you. Did anyone from the state come and talk to you?"

Mox shrugged and tried to look like it didn't bother him. "Well, that's what he told me. So, since my mother didn't want me, you get that I'm not the person you want hanging around with you and your family?" He hoped Roman would nod and let him go off, maybe even cover for him until he could get far away enough from the property to get a ride.

But Roman did not move aside or suggest that he could help Mox get away. Instead he shook his head, which Mox noted he was doing an awful lot of. "No. What _I'm_ hearing is that you _might_ have had a bad mother and you've been living with a really awful guy who pretended to be your father. Some guy who lied about adopting you. If he could lie about that, he could lie about your mother selling you, too."

Mox stared at Roman in stunned disbelief, because no one he'd ever met had even thought to share this point of view with him, not that he'd discussed it often, and Roman made so much _sense_. His father _could_ lie. Mox had heard him lie so much, it was part of the background of his life. His father lied to him about having food in the house, or that he would someday let "Timmy" go to school. His father had promised him at different times that he could someday have a TV that actually would allow him to watch all TV shows, including wrestling, when it was actually being shown, commercials and all. So many lies. Not like the maybe-someday-we'll-get-a-dog, thing. That wasn't a lie, it was just a way to put something off. But other things, they were all just outright lies. He'd even told "Timmy" sometimes that eventually, he'd be too old for "the business" and when that happened, he'd be free to go. His father said they would give him a bunch of money to get him started and take him anywhere he wanted to go. That was the biggest lie of them all. His father would _never_ let him go. When he was too old for "the business" he was supposed to disappear. He had overheard his father and Sam talking about it. Sam saying he was getting too old and all the not eating and shaving his body smooth wasn't going to hide it anymore. That he was getting too tall, his voice was changing. "Timmy" had been a great little money maker in his time, but his time was past. And they had to get rid of him. Sam had suggested Florida. They could have one last, major bash with him, one final, glorious, weekend, and then it would be time for "Timmy" to disappear. Florida had a lot of swamps and a lot of big, hungry creatures. Getting rid of "Timmy's" body wouldn't be hard.

He hadn't even been surprised as he heard his father agreeing with Sam, although his father sounded a little sad, as if he might miss "Timmy." As if "Timmy" was a favorite shirt, thread worn and useless and Sam was telling him it was time to throw the shirt away, that it was just too worn to even be a rag, not that his father really cared about him as a human being. That's when Timmy-now-Mox started coming up this whole idea to escape. Sure, he could be killed for escaping, probably _would_ be, but if he didn't escape, he would definitely be killed. He had been willing to take the chance. What he had not counted on, was this family who wanted to be so nice to him. Who didn't even know how badly they were risking themselves.

"I-I" Mox began and stopped, trying to draw his thoughts together. "I wasn't a good kid," he finally confessed. "Yeah, okay, my father was shit, but I did a lot of things _I_ shouldn't have."

Roman shrugged. "So? You aren't perfect. News flash, Mox, none of us are. If you knew the stuff me and my brothers have done..." his voice trailed off and he shook his head.

"Really?" Mox rolled his eyes. "You? Bad? What, did you accidentally bump into Lance and forget to say 'excuse me?' Fart and blame someone else?"

Roman snorted. "Are you _kidding?_ C'mon Mox, you haven't even know us for a whole day. You're still a semi-guest in the house, so we're all on our best behavior. You stick around, and you'll see how imperfect we are. _All_ of us."

"Give me an example," Mox said, expecting Roman to say something minor, like sometimes they slurped their soup, or about that terrible time Roman had forgotten to put his dirty socks in the laundry hamper and how the family was likely to have had a meeting about it, to make sure Roman understood the crime he had committed and how the family could all help him to make sure he never did it again.

Roman thought for a moment. "Me and my brothers are spaced pretty far apart," he said. "Marc is eight years older than I am, Lance is seven years younger than I am. Anyway, when I was five or so, Marcus was thirteen and like most little kids, I worshiped him. I would follow him and his friends around. Dad was trying to get the business off the ground, and he was training Marcus too. And there was me, constantly hanging around, constantly getting in the way. So, yeah, I was a pest, even worse, I was a pest in a place where I shouldn't have been at all, in a wrestling ring, where people were actually wrestling, and Marcus would get pissed off at me and call me names and even my dad sometimes lost his cool and told me to stop being such a pain in the ass. That doesn't paint a good picture of _any_ of us. I was bratty, Dad was swearing at me, and my brother was yelling at me. But you know, that's _normal._ Also, even though we're both too old for that crap, my brother Marcus and I still get into fights. Like dad yelling at us to take it outside types of fights and my mother gets all upset and cries that we should't hurt each other."

Mox shrugged, "that doesn't sound that bad."

"Okay, what did _you_ do that was so awful?" Roman countered.

"I took my father's coke once," Mox said, casually. "I snorted up a bunch of lines then threw the rest away. I wasn't even mad at him, I just knew he liked his coke, he'd paid good money for it, and I didn't want him to have it. So, I dumped it in the toilet and flushed it. When my father woke up, I told him I'd snorted it all. He knew that was bullshit. If I'd snorted all of it, I'd be dead. That's how much I threw away." He remembered his "punishment" for that one and it hadn't been pleasant at all, but there was part of him that was _still_ glad he did it, that he had ruined something for his father. Something he'd looked forward to. He had taken away his father's precious coke and all the beating of him wouldn't bring it back.

"You've done _cocaine?_ " Roman asked, seeming more surprised by that than Mox dumping it.

"Yeah. It's pretty good," Mox said, shrugging. "Haven't you?" _God, I better not tell him about all the other stuff I've done, if doing coke is gonna freak him out._

Roman shook his head. "We get drug tested for football at our school. Our coach is absolutely intolerant about any use of any drugs or booze. If we get caught doing _anything_ , we're off the team. I got hurt demonstrating a wrestling move with Marc for my dad this year, I twisted my arm. The doctor gave me a pretty mild muscle relaxant, but I had to bring a note to the _coach_ from my doctor that told him he'd prescribed it and it was all right for me to take it. Just in case he decided to pop me on the piss test list."

"Wow, your coach sounds like a buzzkill," Mox said. "You can't even have a beer or two? Not even to celebrate a big win?"

"Nope," Roman said. "I mean, a few guys on the team drink, but they know if coach catches them, they'll be off the team. I'm hoping football is going to get me into college. I can't risk it."

"See?" Mox said. "I mean, the worst thing you've done is you were a pest when you were a kid, and you get into fights with your older brother. Otherwise, you're perfect. You don't drink, you don't do drugs. Compared to the shit I've done, you and your family _are_ perfect. And you don't need me around."

"You'll find out soon enough we're not. And maybe we don't _need_ you," Roman admitted. "But we _want_ you. C'mon, you're hurt. You have no place else to go. At least stay with us until your ankle is healed. Give yourself the chance to get three meals a day and a bed to sleep in for awhile. When you're all healed, then if you want to go, I won't try to stop you. Mom and Dad are another story, but _I_ won't."

"Why is it so important I stay?" Mox asked, getting irritated. It wasn't like he really wanted to leave this great place, but he _had_ to. And it was so hard to keep arguing against something he wanted to do.

"Why is it so important that you leave?"

"None of your business!" Mox said.

Roman shook his head, all that hair of his, shaking from side to side with it. God, did he have pretty hair, especially for a guy. Lance had long hair too, but it was wavy, like Sefa and Marc's hair. Roman's hair was straighter and thicker, like his mother's. It _should_ have given Roman a feminine look, but instead, it made him look more masculine. Although, maybe the hairs growing on his upper lip with a lot more abandoned than Mox's did when he didn't shave them, had something to do with that. "No way, Mox. It's easy why we want you to stay, we're _worried_ about you. Your ankle is messed up and you need a place to stay. You could use with some regular food too, and maybe getting outdoors a little more often, because Lance is right, you're so pale you're almost luminescent. And, my parents are just _like_ that. They care. My dad insults his students all the time, but he cares about them, and they know it. Yeah, he's a big tough wrestler, but he's not a jerk. You've figured out by now that my mom is...well, she's a mom. You're a kid without a home, a kid with a hurt ankle, so of course she cares about you. Marc feels bad because he was the one that forced you to take that nose dive into the ditch. So, yeah, you know why we want you to stay. I think _we_ have the right to know why you're all hellbent on leaving?"

Mox suddenly felt weary. His ankle had begun throbbing again, and his armpits hurt from the crutches, because he was leaning too much on them. He'd gotten some sleep, but he could have used more. He wasn't hungry, thanks to lunch, but he was so tired and so sore and so fed up with this arguing. "I have to leave because I don't want to get your family _killed!"_ he shouted.

Well, that bought him a few moments of silence from Roman, who just stared at him, almost gaped at him, his mouth half opened and his eyes bugging out until he finally managed to get a hold on himself and said, "Get us _killed?_ What's going on, Mox? Are you afraid that dude you called 'father' is going to find you? Don't be. The camp is off the beaten path and we're not hanging signs out with your picture that say, 'Found, one kid.' And even if he _did_ find you here, I'd feel more sorry for him than us. Wrestling might be scripted, but that doesn't mean wrestlers are weak and we have a whole bunch of wrestlers on the property. My dad might be retired, but he can still lift weights and throw _real_ punches with the best of them. Marc has studied wrestling _and_ martial arts. And if that _still_ isn't enough, my dad has three shot guns and he, Marc, and my mom are pretty good with them." When he saw the look on Mox's face, Roman shook his head. "Nah, it's not what you think, my folks aren't redneck southerners, with a gun rack in the car and playing dueling banjos on the porch. But we've got a big pond on the property, big pond or small lake, we're not quite sure what to call it. But sometimes gators get this great idea that they'll move into the lake, and if they're over a certain size, they have to be killed, it's the law. Yeah, you can call animal control, but they're busy enough with gators and everything else, so it's easier for my parents to just take care of them. And we've had other animals, you know, raccoon and stuff, that will go after the garbage and yeah, cold, cruel world and all, but sometimes the only thing to do is to shoot them. But I _know_ my folks and if someone came to the camp, to hurt you? They'd do what they had to to protect you."

"They don't _hav_ e to get close!" Mox protested. "Not super close at least. They can be just down the street, maybe even further!" He knew he should stop, knew he was saying too much, but it was like something inside of him, some mental dam broke and this information he'd held all his life, told he couldn't tell anyone, was spilling out, to this _Roman_ kid for fuck's sake. "All they gotta do is turn on the tracker and if it detects I'm near, hit the button and boom! All of us are dead! Me, you, your parents, your brothers, probably the whole damned camp, _dead!"_

Now Roman did gape at him, mouth hanging open, eyes all bugged out, like his brain was having trouble processing what his ears were hearing. And maybe that was the case, because he shook his head again, but this time almost almost violently before he spoke. "Are you saying you have a _bomb_ in you, Mox? Like someone opened you up and put a bomb inside of you that they can set off if they're close enough to you?"

"Yeah, something like that," Mox said. "You know how they put those chips into animals, so if they get lost, people can find them?"

Roman nodded. "Yeah, my folks got Einstein chipped a couple months ago, the vet recommended it."

"Who the hell is _Einstein?_ " Mox asked, temporarily distracted.

"Lance's cat," Roman explained. "Lance found him when he was a kitten and he had his head stuck in a little glass jar, we think it was a baby food jar, and it was stuck on him _really_ tight. He brought the cat home and he and Mom worked the jar off a bit at a time, using Vaseline and a lot of patience. When they got it off, the kitten just, well, became Lance's kitten and grew up to be Lance's cat. Followed him around as if Lance was his mother. And Lance named him Einstein, because he thought it was funny, a kitten that was dumb enough to get his head stuck in a jar being named after someone who was known for his brilliance. But, we got him chipped because the vet said if we were going to let him go indoors and outdoors, he should be chipped. But what does that have to do with you, uh, being a _bomb?"_

"They put one of those chips in me," Mox said, and without realizing it, reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, where the tiny scar was from the needle. "But it wasn't a regular animal chip. My father's friend Sam, he'd been in the army." he didn't even realize he had given out Sam's first name but continued, "he knew how to get these _special_ chips. They not only can track you, but they're rigged that if a button is pressed, it's like you _become_ a bomb. I have one of those chips, they put it into me. If they track me down, they'll press the button and kill me and everyone around me." He looked at Roman, hoping he'd finally get it and let Mox leave, before he was too tired to get further away. " _Now_ do you understand?"

"No," Roman said, speaking very slowly, "Mox, I think that was another lie."

Mox shook his head. "Not this one. I felt the needle going into my skin, right back here. It went in and they put it into me and turned me into some bomb. They did that so I wouldn't run away. They did that so if I ran to other people to try to get away, they could just kill me _and_ them."

 _His father and Sam had sat on him, while he tried to protest, tried to get them off of him, then Sam stuck the needle into him, it hadn't hurt much, but they had already told him what it would do. "There," Sam said when he pulled the needle out. "All set. You're a living bomb, kid. As long as you're a good boy and stay with your father and me, you'll be fine. But if you get it in your head to go running off? You're dead. And anyone you're with is dead. too."_

" _Didn't you put the_ extra _powerful one in there?" his father had asked, still sitting on him, even though "Timmy" had stopped protesting, trying to get over the shock of what had just happened._

" _Oh yeah, I forgot_ _," Sam said. "I did use an_ extra _powerful one. It will probably take out everyone within a few hundred feet radius of you. Just blow them to bits. Do you want to be guilty of that too, when you die? That you took so many innocent people with you?"_

 _He wanted to scream, wanted to claw at the back of his neck until his neck bled and he found the chip and got rid of it. But he knew it was useless. The chip was inside of him now, going all around inside of him, traveling by blood, and blood was all over inside of him. He'd never find it. He'd never be able to get rid of it. All he could do now is hope that his father and Sam kept whatever it was that could set off that tiny bomb, someplace safe so it was never pressed by accident._

"Mox?" Roman's voice broke him away from his thoughts. "Those chips don't work like that. I mean, I didn't go to the vet when it was done, Mom and Lance went, but Lance was pretty excited, he thought it was cool. He said that we had to register Einstein's chip number so it could be traced to us. That if Einstein ever _did_ get far away and someone found him, they could take him to a vet and the vet could scan him for a chip and find out the number of the chip, that's it. The chip doesn't do anything but give out a number, and then you have to look up that number on a computer database to get the name and address of the owner. or sometimes only the name and number of the vet that chipped him. Lance said the needle used to put it in was a bigger than normal needle, but not huge. And it doesn't go into the bloodstream, it's just under the skin. To put something like you're describing into you, it would have to be a lot bigger than any needle could put into you. They'd have to open you up and put it in like something the size of a pacemaker, or probably even bigger, like the size of a hand grenade."

Mox swallowed hard and shook his head. "No, I told you, this was _military_ stuff. Top secret stuff..." and even as he said it, even as he defended the danger of it, part of him was angry, angry at Sam, angry at his father, but mostly angry at himself, because now that Roman was talking, the idea that he was a living bomb was starting to sound a little... childish. Maybe when he was younger, he could believe that, but now? Was it really possible? But his father and Sam had been so confident, even reminding him of it quite often, so he never thought to question it. He just accepted it.

"Is it still supposed to be in the back of your neck?" Roman asked.

"No, it travels around in my blood system," Mox said, shaking his head. "So, I can't find it and remove it."

"Then if it is real, how do you know, how did your _father_ know if it was still there? I mean, people get cut. I'm sure you've been cut before, everyone has. What if it already leaked out of you? If it's _that_ tiny, you might never see it and neither would they."

Mox stared at him, feeling more and more exhausted, and yet more and more angry. With Roman for making him see how stupid he was, with himself for being so stupid. "But it's top secret stuff," he whispered. "Nobody knows about it yet."

"And, even if it was entirely made of an explosive that would work in blood, would it really be big enough to cause all that damage?" Roman went on arguing with him. "If it's so tiny it would fit in a needle, then even if it did explode, yeah, it might hurt _you_. If it was near your heart, it might even make your heart stop beating, or burst a major blood vessel, so you had internal bleeding. And that might make _you_ die, but it's not going to blow up everyone around you. I think bombs work by having something that explodes and flies around. Shrapnel, they call it. There might be something that small that could detonate, but the worst it's going to do is spread bits of _you_ everywhere. And while that is _really_ disgusting, it's not going to kill everyone in the camp. It's just going to make folks in the same room hurl because they're covered with bits of you. And I'm not saying _you_ dying would be okay for you, it wouldn't. But I don't think you're in any danger of hurting anyone else. And if you really are rigged up with an explosive... _something_ that could kill you, we'll get it removed."

Now, on top of his ankle hurting and his arms hurting, Mox's head began swimming. Was Mox _really_ that stupid? Had he really been so dumb as to buy a lie that this other guy, this Roman guy who wasn't much older than he was, could see right through as if it were made of plastic wrap? Or, was it really true and Roman just didn't know or understand how it could work. "I-" he started to say, and then stopped. Everything was swimming around, both behind and in front of his eyes, red and gray, like blood and dirt mixed together. For a moment, it felt so real, he thought maybe his father and Sam were nearby and they were going to prove Roman wrong and blow him up, take out him and Roman and everything around them. The house, the camp, the stupid cat he hadn't met yet. All of them, gone. But... but...

They _couldn't._ Roman was making sense. He wasn't sure about the explosive part, maybe there were more powerful explosives than Roman knew about, but he had bled a _lot_ in his life. Why would they put something inside of him that could travel through _blood?_ And why had he _believed_ them? Sure, maybe when they first did it, he was younger then, and a lot stupider, but he was older now, and yet he never thought to question it. Never. Even all those hours when he was locked away in the closet, or hanging from pipes in the basement, or in the box in the van, all that time where he could have thought and tried to work this out and he hadn't. He'd just believed, because he'd been _told_ so. And he wanted to not believe, but he wasn't sure if he could.

"Mox?"

Roman's voice sounded like it was coming from far away, and he looked towards him, surprised to see he was so close. Then Roman's face began swimming out of view and he felt one of the crutches fall to the ground and then he just couldn't support himself anymore...

And for the first time in his life, he blacked out without being beaten first.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

When Mox opened his eyes again, there was a cat sniffing his face. It might have been the whiskers tickling him that caused him to wake up, he wasn't sure, but he did know when he opened his eyes he felt those whiskers and that cat nose running along his cheek, sniffing at his ear, as delicately and thus as ticklish as group of tiny flying insects flying about and landing on him,. Mox froze, not knowing if the cat was going to attack him. Mox had never spent time with cats, so he wasn't sure if cats attacked strangers. He'd seen some movies with cats, some were great, but some were not so great, like the cat in Pet Semetery. What was this cat's game? Would this cat try to claw his eyeballs out?

The cat, who had dark orange, light orange, and even lighter orange fur striped on most of him, and a belly as white as milk saw his eyes open and only paused for a second and went right back to his determination to sniff every bit of Mox's face.

"Einstein, stop that! Leave him alone," a voice said, and Mox saw Lance standing above him, scooping up the cat and then holding him up in the air, looking up into the cat's face. "He's been through enough, he doesn't need you sniffing his face!" And while Lances voice was stern, he lowered the cat and kissed the top of his head, then put him gently on the floor before turning his attention to Mox. "You're awake."

"Yeah," Mox looked around. He was in a room he hadn't seen before, and lying on a couch. There was a blanket that had several bright colored squares on it covering him. The blanket smelled like every bit of cloth he'd been able to smell in the Reign's household, like laundry detergent and sunshine and fresh air. Okay, so he hadn't succeeded in getting away. Bits of memory floated from the back to the front of his head, and he realized that he must have passed out. And, he would assume that big, strong, Roman had carried him into the house as if he was no heavier to Roman than Einstein was to Lance. _Which makes sense_ , he thought sourly, _Since we're both a couple of pussies._

"Are you okay? Do you need anything?" Lance asked. "Water? Juice? Sweet tea? Food? A couple aspirin or ibuprofen? Another blanket? Another pillow for your foot?"

Mox stared at the kid, overwhelmed with the choices he was offered and unable to quite grasp it all. "I don't think so," he said slowly.

"Good," Lance nodded. "Then I'm gonna go get Mom or Dad. I said I'd watch you. We've been taking turns waiting for you to wake up."

"How long have I been out?" Mox asked.

"Like, four hours," Lance said. "You missed dinner, but Mom saved some for you. She saved it before we sat down to eat, which is good, because you've got mashed potatoes. If she'd waited until we were done eating to put some aside from you, you wouldn't get any, because Roman and Marc got in a food fight and they mostly threw mashed potatoes at each other. Mom was _furious._ But, she also made them clean the kitchen like really _really_ clean it, like a spring or fall cleaning clean. Dad was watching you then, waiting for you to wake up. But when he found out about what happened, he laughed and said the punishment was fitting enough and that didn't make Mom too happy either. So, she didn't give Dad any of the mashed potatoes she'd put aside for you. So, dad had to eat his dinner without mashed potatoes, which he likes. But, you've got some if you want dinner."

Mox had no idea what to say to this flood of information so he nodded, hoping that would be enough. It seemed to satisfy Lance, who scampered out of the room. Mox noted that Einstein followed him, obviously not caring anymore about Mox, if Lance was going to leave the room.

Lance and Einstein returned to the room, but this time with both Sefa and Roman. This time, Einstein jumped on the sofa, and then climbed on Mox's chest, standing there, proudly, as if Mox was some type of trophy animal he'd subdued, tail swishing proudly from side to side in slow waves, and giving Mox an excellent view of his asshole. _Cats are weird,_ Mox determined.

Again, Lance gently removed the cat from Mox, but this time neither scolded nor kissed the animal, and put him on the floor. "He's awake," he said, although Mox was pretty sure Sefa and Roman had already noticed that, with his eyes being open and all.

"How are you feeling?" Sefa asked, looking him over. "Roman says he caught you as you passed out, so you didn't hit your head."

"Yeah," Roman said, and either his eye twitched, or he dropped a wink at Mox. "I'm sorry, I should have realized you shouldn't be walking around so much in the sun, what with your ankle all sore and you not getting enough sleep and all. I shouldn't have pushed you like that."

Mox got it, Roman was letting him know that he hadn't told his father that Mox had been trying to run away. Mox was extremely grateful, so he shrugged what he hoped was a casual shrug. "It's okay. I should have said I was getting tired."

"Let me guess, you didn't want to look weak," Sefa said with a bit of a snort to indicate that he thought that Mox had been foolish, and likely Roman too. Mox found he didn't mind that Sefa thought he'd done something dumb, in fact, he almost liked it. It seemed so _normal._ Like it or not, it made Mox feel as if he were part of this family, even though he wasn't.

"We've got you an appointment at the doctor's tomorrow," Sefa went on to say. "We're going to have you checked out. Get a proper X-ray of that ankle and a general check to make sure you're all right."

While Sefa's voice was firm, a voice that said it would tolerate no argument about the matter, Mox still shook his head. "No doctor," he said, trying to sound as if this was not up for debate. He knew he didn't sound nearly as forceful as Sefa did, but he wasn't going to let that one go.

Sefa didn't answer right away, but instead looked at Lance. "Why don't you see if your mother has some cookies for you. I understand with the food fight and clean up, Mom didn't serve dessert. Maybe she can give you some now. And let her know Mox will probably wants some dinner, soon."

"Translation," Lance said, rolling his eyes. "We want to talk about stuff that we think you are unable to understand, even though you probably have an _extraordinarily_ high IQ. So, we will attempt to distract you with the offer of sugary treats." He looked at Mox and shook his head, sadly. "The worst part is that I'll _fall_ for it."

"Don't worry." Sefa looked at his youngest with a grin. "We all know that you realize it's a futile argument. You're just being smart and taking the more enjoyable way out of it and going right for the cookies."

"Thanks, Dad," Lance said as he left the room, calling behind him, "At least I've saved face with the Mensa crowd, which I'm _not_ a member of, thanks to you and Mom being unwilling to let me have my IQ tested."

"We don't want to put any pressure on you, Son," Sefa responded. "We want you to be able to grow up with as normal of a life as possible. Plenty of time to be a brainiac when you're older."

" _Ha!"_ Lance snorted, his voice fading as he walked further away, "I think AML took the chance of a normal childhood away from me. I'm scarred for life, you know." His voice sounded remarkably cheerful for someone who was proclaiming such emotional distress.

As Sefa and Lance were calling out to each other, Einstein leaped off Mox's chest, to follow his favorite human. Mox found himself making an involuntary "oof!" noise. Einstein wasn't a big cat, but when he jumped off his chest, for a brief moment, Mox would have thought he was a baby elephant. A _fat_ baby elephant.

Sefa turned his attention back to Mox. There was a sturdy wooden coffee table in front of the couch, and he sat down on it so he could face Mox. Roman sat down on a lounge chair near Mox's feet. If he turned to the side, which he did, draping his long feet over the arm of the chair, he was facing Mox. "You _are_ going to the doctor tomorrow," Sefa said. "And that is _not_ up for debate. If you are worried, don't be. I've talked to the doctor whose going to be seeing you. Nothing will be reported. The doctor is just going to check you out and do what he has to do. We're going to do this carefully."

"Dad means everything will be done using cash so nothing will have to go through the insurance company," Roman said, shrugging.

Mox had a vague idea of insurance, and knew it was something you were supposed to have on a car so you could drive it and if someone hit you, insurance made sure you were taken care of. Or, if you had insurance, it kept you from having "the pants sued off you" if you hit someone else's car. His father had bitched a lot about insurance, because he'd never been in an accident. He'd never even gotten a speeding or parking ticket. So, why did he have to give "the goddamned blood sucking insurance companies" so much money every year? _What does that have to do with going to a doctor?_ Mox wondered. But he still shook his head. "I can't go to the doctor."

"Are you still worried about that chip bullshit you were told?" Sefa asked. "Roman said you'd mentioned it when the two of you were taking a walk, and that's why you didn't want to go to any doctors. Don't be worried, it _is_ bullshit."

"Can you _prove_ it?" Mox asked, cautiously. He remembered the conversation, and still thought Roman had made a lot of sense, but there was a part of him, larger than he wanted to admit, that still wondered. Yeah, he got it, his father and Sam hadn't want him running off, so maybe they told him this whopper lie to make him afraid to leave, but they had been so _faithful_ to that chip business. Bringing it up casually, as if it were something as ordinary for "Timmy" as having blue eyes. Sam had even run a scanner over him once, and it had beeped near his stomach and Sam had explained the chip was near his stomach at this point, and if Sam pressed this one button, he would blow "Timmy", himself, his father, the whole house up. He had been terrified, listening to the beep of the machine, and he could have sworn he _felt_ that chip heating up inside of him, as if getting ready to explode.

Sefa shook his head. "Nope, _I_ can't prove it. But Roman says you told him it's like the chip we had put in Einstein. If that's the case, then the detector to detect those chips should detect your chip too. So, I called the vet, who also happens to go to St. Anthony's, like we do, and as a favor, he's going to stop by in a bit with a scanner."

"The scanner can set it off!" Mox protested, trying to swallow down his fear, "The scanner Sa- uh, my father's friend had beeped when he ran it over me, once. Beeped right near my stomach, and he told me the chip was there and if he pressed this one button, we'd all explode and die."

"That is not how those chips work," Sefa said, shaking his head. "Mox, the chip Einstein and all pets have is pretty much nothing but tiny, very low powered radio transmission. I mean, it is so low powered that if the detector isn't right near the chip, it won't beep. The chip transmits a signal and all the scanner does is get a number off the chip."

"That's what Roman said," Mox admitted. "But this is different, this is top secret _Army_ stuff, _government_ stuff."

"Was your father's friend in the army?" Sefa asked.

"No, but he's _been_ in the army."

"Mox, do you remember how old you were when they took you?"

Mox thought this was a rather abrupt change of subject, but he stopped and thought. "I-I don't remember," he confessed, thinking hard. "My father didn't like it when I said or did anything that mentioned my… first life." His brow furrowed. "But, I think I was somewhere where I expected my mother or one of her friends to pick me up. School?" he offered weakly.

"Okay, you were pretty young, but not _too_ young, if you were too young, you probably would have forgotten you'd been kidnapped at all." Sefa mused, "And the school idea sounds about right. So, I'm going to say you were either five or six. Old enough to be able to remember parts of your past, but young enough that you forgot a lot, too. And you had the extra _bonus_ of a father and his friend punishing you when you remembered. So, I'm going to venture, this happened in the early '90s. When did they put this so-called chip into you?"

Mox couldn't remember, it just seemed like as long as he had lived with his father, he'd had the chip in him. "I think pretty soon after they took me."

Sefa nodded. "Did they say it worked like those chips for dogs and cats when they put it in you?"

Mox started to nod, then stopped abruptly, because another memory, as fragile as a bit of charred paper, rising as ash from a fire, pushed its way up from wherever the mind kept things for later use, and began to float around towards the part of his mind that was always on. And like writing on charred paper, he could make a bit of it out. A memory. Of him being older, of him not having much fight in him anymore, at least not most of the time. He was used to his life now. He didn't _like_ it, but he was used to it and he wasn't sure anymore if there was another way to live, or if any life he had lived before had been nothing but a strange dream.

 _He was sitting at the kitchen table, maybe it was breakfast, maybe not. His father kept all curtains down, all blinds shut in every place they rented. If there were no shades or curtains or blinds, he would nail blankets to the wood around the windows. For all "Timmy" knew, it was still midnight and he just thought it was morning. Since he wasn't in the basement, and he was sitting at a table, he was probably eating something, but he couldn't remember. He did remember his father was drinking coffee and smoking a joint. Sam was reading a newspaper and he'd gotten excited. "Ah-hah!" he exclaimed, pushing the paper over to him. "Here's your proof, Timmy."_

 _He had taken the paper gently, as if it might hurt him to hold it. The former Timmy could read, even though he didn't go to school like other kids. He had known all the letters to his old name and sometimes, when his father was in a good mood, and he'd been a particularly good boy, his father would read to him from one of the few children's books that somehow managed to travel with them. And he showed him a little, not a lot, but just enough that he was able to recognize all of the alphabet. and then, little by little, learned to string those letters together with sounds to form words. He couldn't read as well as he wished, because reading material was scarce. He could read the boxes his wrestling and movie tapes came in, but he had to sound out the hard words and some of them, he didn't even know the meaning of. Having this newspaper in the house was rare, and if he hadn't been so frightened of it being pushed at him by Sam, he would have wondered if he could have sneaked off with it, kept it hidden in his room downstairs, so he could try to read it one of those many days he spent alone down there, locked down there, while his father and Sam "took care of business." If he didn't have the TV/VCR machine, time dragged on and on and the paper would have offered a good enough distraction, if a light was left on for him._

" _Right there!" Sam said, poking his finger down at the paper, bending it in "Timmy's" hand so it hit the table. "There's your proof."_

" _Proof of what?" his father asked, looking mildly interested in what was happening. He tipped the the joint on the edge of a metal ashtray, knocking off the ash._

" _Proof that the kid is wired for destruction!" Sam said, looking smug. "I've always suspected the little shit didn't really believe us when we told him about the chip, that part of him thought we made it up, but, There. It. Is!" He jabbed at the paper once for each of the three words. "Right there in black and white!"_

 _He was trying to read the paper, and wished Sam would stop jabbing it. How was he supposed to see this proof? And why did Sam think he needed proof? He'd never questioned the chip, he knew better._

 _His father got bored with Sam's jabbing and grabbed the paper out of "Timmy's" hands, held it up and began reading. "FDA approves of microchips for animal identification" he read._

" _See?" Sam said, getting very excited. "That's what's in you, Timmy. A microchip. It works just like these ones for animals, except that it also is a bomb. But see? It's real. I just got the technology first, because of the Army. Now, since it's been around long enough, the military is sharing some of that with the world. I mean, they aren't telling everyone how to make it into a bomb, but they've got a watered down version to identify lost or stolen animals. The one in you is a lot more powerful, but it works in the same way!"_

The memory slipped away from him again, sifted down to the back of his mind, but Mox looked at Sefa. "No. He told me later. He showed me an article in the paper about the chips for animals and told me that proved he was right. I sorta remember being scared that he thought I'd been questioning it, because I never did. But after that… he talked about how the chip was just like the ones they used on pets and livestock a lot. He loved telling me how my version was a special, military version and much stronger. He showed me a picture of one once, and how small it was, because they had it next to a penny." He swallowed, thinking hard, half expecting Roman to start laughing at him, but Roman didn't. He just sat there, looking at him with an expression that said, "C'mon, Mox, figure it out."

"I'm going to take a stab in the dark here, and say that what really got your father's friend excited was that he found something that could make his lie more believable to you." Sefa said, "That he was worried that as you grew older, if he couldn't prove it to you, you might start thinking he was full of something warm and brown, and I'm not talking about brownies fresh from the oven."

Mox looked at Sefa, swallowing hard. "D-do you really think so?"

Sefa nodded. "And he did tell you that it worked the same way, right?" _Exactly_ the same, except that your chip had that extra explosive thing added, right?"

Mox nodded.

"Well, if it's the same, then Ben's scanner will find it." Sefa said. "And I'm willing to bet this house, the wrestling school, and my _family_ that he's going to find nothing. That's got to tell you how sure I am that they lied to you."

Mox stared at Sefa, realizing that he was being honest. He was risking everything he had, and Mox didn't think for a moment, he'd do that if he thought there was even the slightest chance he could hurt his family. "Okay," he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "We'll let your friend scan me."

"Don't worry, we'll be right here with you," Sefa said.

Mox nodded, then sniffed the air, realizing he smelled something absolutely wonderful coming from outside of the room. He looked towards the doorway just as Jen was coming in, holding a tray, which had plates with food on them. He couldn't see the food clearly, but he sure could smell it and his mouth was watering.

"Ben should be here in half an hour or so," Jen said, as she came over. "And while we're waiting for him, I want you to eat something, Jon." As she walked over with the tray, Sefa moved to another lounge chair, so Jen could help Mox sit up and eat.

"I-I'd be happy to eat something," Mox said, wondering where she would have gotten the notion that he _wouldn't_ want to eat something that smelled so good? "I can get up though," he offered.

"Nonsense, I want you to rest," Jen said, putting the tray so its legs were on either side of him and he could access the food. "I think the doctor will confirm with me tomorrow, that you need plenty of food and rest. After Ben is done, if you're up to it, you can go upstairs and go to bed. If you don't feel you can make it, Roman or Sefa can help you get up there."

Mox heard her, but more of his attention was focused on the meal in front of him. Two pieces of chicken, with some type of coating on them and a sprinkling of what looked like pine needles, but Mox was pretty sure it wasn't. A good sized helping of mashed potatoes and some type of vegetable he wasn't familiar with. Or maybe it was two types of vegetables because while they were both in thin slices, the sides of some slices were green and others were yellow. "What's this?" he asked, pointing to the vegetables.

"Summer squash and zucchini," she said, looking astonished. "You've never eaten summer squash and zucchini?"

Mox shook his head. "At least I don't remember, but I don't think so. My, uh, father liked things out of cans or boxes, and these don't look like they came out of a can or a box."

"No, they certainly did not!" Jen said, sounding a tiny bit offended. "And neither did the potatoes, in case you were wondering."

He hadn't been wondering about the potatoes, but he nodded anyway. He picked up the fork and speared some of the summer squash and zucchini and then put it in his mouth, chewing slowly. The texture was a little strange, they had a very slight crunch to them, which he never got in canned vegetables. Not a lot of taste though, but there was a pat of butter on them, melting, and that added flavor.

"I wasn't sure if you preferred white or dark meat, so I gave you a piece of each," Jen went on to explain.

He'd eaten chicken before, sometime his dad or Sam brought it home from some place, usually KFC, but sometimes Popeye's or another place. He knew that white meat was called breasts and dark meat were drumstick and thighs. He seemed to have a thigh and breast on the plate, which was good. He liked thighs, they had more meat than drumsticks. But, this did look like an awful lot of food, a lot more than he was used to getting, even on eating days. _If I finish this, I'll probably have eaten more in one day than I would have eaten in six days normally._ For a moment, he felt a ball of fear forming in him, remembering how strict his father was about only eating every other day and not eating too much on the not eating days. _This is going to make me grow faster!_ He almost pushed the tray away, then remembered he didn't have to be afraid of looking his age any longer. He started eating, taking a bite of everything on his plate, determining foods he liked best. The chicken and the mashed potatoes both tied for first place. He looked over at Roman, who was still sitting sideways in the recliner. "Are these the same potatoes you and your brother threw at each other at dinner?"

Roman looked sheepish for a moment, then nodded.

"You _threw_ these potatoes? _These_ potatoes?" When Roman nodded again, Mox shook his head. "That was a really _stupid_ thing to do."

Sefa burst out laughing, "he's got your number, son."

Roman rolled his eyes, but he still looked sheepish.

* * *

Mox was eating a homemade chocolate chip cookie when Ben arrived at the house. Jen had only allowed him one cookie, saying if he was still hungry, she'd get him more potatoes or chicken, but it wasn't a tiny cookie and he was nibbling at it, trying to enjoy every bite. He remembered having store bought cookies a few times, and had thought nothing could beat Oreo's. He was wrong, these put Oreo's to shame.

Ben seemed like a nice enough guy, but Mox was still cautious. He'd met a lot of seemingly nice guys through his father and Sam and most of them had been anything _but_ nice once they got down to business. But, he had the feeling Sefa wouldn't allow anyone he thought would be bad or dangerous to his family in the house and he told himself to relax.

Ben demonstrated the scanner on Einstein, who Lance brought into the room when asked. As if he understood what was expected of him, the cat leaped on the coffee table and stood there, staring at Mox as if to say, "Let me show you, so you'll know how stupid you are being." _Wow, cats are judgmental_ , Mox thought.

Ben ran the scanner over Einstein, starting with his back end. Nothing happened until Ben ran it over the back of Einstein's neck, then a light on the end of it lit up, and there was a tiny beep. Ben turned the scanner so Mox could look at it. There was a tiny display screen and upon it a number was flashing. "See? All it does is show the number on the chip. It doesn't give anything else. We have to put this number into our computer database to pull up the records. The chip is too small to give us anything but the number."

"I could go get my laptop and access the database," Lance said eagerly. "You could see the information on Einstein. It shows he's had all his shots and that Dr. Ben here, is his vet and a phone number to call if someone finds him. It's really neat!"

"No, that's okay," Mox said, staring at the display that only showed a number. The machine had even stopped beeping after it had gotten the signal for Einstein's chip and put it on the display. The scanner looked nothing like the one Sam had used on him, either. "What does that switch do?" he asked, pointing to a small black switch on the scanner.

"Turns the unit on," Ben said. He pointed to another small button. "And this will clear out Einstein's number, so we can scan you, next." He pressed the button and sure enough, the number disappeared and the screen was blank. Einstein leaped from the coffee table to the floor and walked over to Lance looking extremely pleased with himself, as if he knew he had performed a valuable service.

"Okay, now it's your turn," Ben said. "Where did they say they put the chip?"

"They put it in the back of my neck," Mox said, managing to keep his voice from trembling, which was difficult. He really did believe Sefa wouldn't have allowed this to happen if he'd thought there was the slightest risk, but he was _so_ used to believing in it, that it was hard to put it aside. "It can travel, though."

"I don't believe in this _explosive_ chip bit," Ben said. "That seems impossible to me. But I do know about those chips we put in animals like Einstein. We would never put a chip in someone's blood system, because that would be dangerous. We put it under the skin. Yes, sometimes it does travel a bit, but not like you're talking, it doesn't circulate around with your blood, it would just be under your skin. But, we'll check your entire body, just to be sure."

As Ben moved the machine towards him, Mox tried not to look at it, and also tried not to whimper. His eyes found Sefa's and he swallowed hard. "Okay, so this scanner can't make it explode," he blurted out, "But what if there _is_ a chip inside of me?"

"Then we find a way to remove it," Sefa said, looking steadily at Mox. "We'll find a way to get it removed _tonight_ , I promise."

Mox nodded, then closed his eyes as Ben brought the scanner behind him to his neck. He found himself holding his breath, waiting for that beep. Nobody in the room spoke, and Mox wondered if they were waiting too, or if they were just making sure that he could hear for the beep.

There was no beep. Ben ran the scanner down as far as he could along his back and there was no beep. He then brought the scanner around and scanned the front of him, starting at the top of his head and going down slowly. When it got near his stomach, Mox felt his entire body tense. Ben ran the scanner over his stomach, down his left side, which wasn't pressed into the couch.

When Ben finished scanning all he could, Roman and Sefa came over and without being asked, helped Mox up and off the couch, supporting him, so Ben could scan the backs of his legs, and over his butt. By the time they had finished, there wasn't one square inch of Mox that hadn't been scanned. He'd even allowed Ben to run the scanner up his inner legs and thighs, which was almost more nerve wracking than waiting for that beep.

No beep came.

When Sefa and Roman helped him back onto the couch, Mox was shaking. "Sam ran his scanner over my s-stomach," he said, unable to stop himself. "I heard noise. Like a very, very long beep. Maybe it sounded like a beep would sound if it had a sore throat? Or a beep mixed with that noise a TV or Radio makes when it's not on a station?"

Lance tipped his head to one side. "Wait!" he said. "Did it start making that noise when he was close to your stomach and get really loud at about your belly button, and stay loud until he moved it away from you or further down your legs?"

Lance looked about ready to leap out of his skin, but not out of fear, instead it was excitement. When Mox nodded, Lance nodded as well and looked at his father. "I'd bet _anything_ what the guy had was a portable metal detector, like the ones they have at the airport and stuff! And it was set off because Mox was wearing pants with a metal snap or a zipper or both! _Think_ about it, what he described sounds like the same noise a metal detector makes!"

Ben nodded slowly, obviously thinking about it. "That actually makes a lot of sense."

"Well, shit," Sefa said. "I'll bet you're right, Lance."

"I'd bet money on it," Lance said and shrugged. Now that his explanation was accepted as a probable truth, he could look modest about it.

Even though Mox was back to laying on the couch, he began trembling as if he were standing without the aid of his crutches. He tried to stop, but he couldn't. He ordered himself to stop, but instead the trembling got worse, as if his blood had turned to ice. And then unable to stop himself, tears gathered in his eyes, hot tears, that felt as if they were burning his eyes and his cheeks as they rolled down his face. He wasn't sure what was happening. Was it relief? Was it anger for all these years he'd believed it? Perhaps there was even a tiny bit of disappointment that the explosive chip had turned out to be a lie. Not that he _wanted_ to be a bomb, but it just struck Mox as the final betrayal. Was everything his father had told him a lie? _Everything?_ And if he hadn't been such a stupid idiot, falling for it, would he have been able to escape earlier? How much earlier? How many years of hell could he have avoided if he'd only been less of a fool?

He wanted to stop the tears, wanted to stop crying, but he couldn't. Part of him waited for Roman, or Lance to laugh at him, or maybe Sefa would tell him to stop crying and "man up," and if he did, Mox wouldn't have blamed him, he was being a baby, a stupid, crybaby, pussy and he just couldn't stop.

Roman got to his feet then and spoke in an overly eager, enthusiastic voice, "Hey, I'll bet Mom is done with the coffee! Do you want some coffee, Ben? I'll bet Mom'll make you hot chocolate, Lance. And if she won't, _I_ will. C'mon. Maybe she'll even let us have another cookie." He headed to the door, motioning Lance and Ben to follow.

Lance and Ben did not need to be told twice, Lance merely nodded and the three of them left the room, Einstein following, leaving Mox and Sefa alone. And Mox waited. Waited to be told to stop sniveling, waited to get hit, or slapped across the face. Maybe Sefa would take his belt off and go after him until he just stopped those fucking tears. Mox drew in a deep breath, trying to choke them all down, but they just wouldn't be stopped.

Sefa sat down on the coffee table, and took a box of tissues that was lying on it, and put it by Mox's side. "It's okay, Mox," he said, his voice gentle. "Cry if you need to. If anyone has reason to cry, it's you. Let it out, you'll feel better."

And even though it was the last thing he wanted to do, Mox buried his face in his hands and sobbed like he hadn't in years. And even when he finished he still didn't know really why he had cried at all.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** **Thank you to everyone who read this. To those who enjoyed it, I'm glad. To those who didn't, sorry. Special thanks to those who favored/followed and huge thanks to those who reviewed, I really do appreciate it. Except for you, Zip, you wanker. (And you said I wouldn't have the nerve to say that in my notes. Neener, I'm getting my girlnads back.)**

 **Some folks will know now what I mean by Life Imitates Art. I'm still not ready to go into it, but it's kind of weird and we'll get there soon enough.**

 **The personality of Einstein is based on almost every cat I've ever known, including the two I have now. My girl Kiz has one of those chips and it is pretty interesting. I know they're commonplace now, but this is the first cat I've ever owned that has one, and I think it's neat and worrisome. It's neat for animals, but I've heard some folks talking about it for kids. And I can understand that on the POV of a parent, especially if your kid had medical conditions. If your kid is unable to answer questions, and you're not around, medical people can scan and find out if your kid has allergies, diabetes, etc. It would be useful for adults too. But, then another part of me realizes this has the potential to be really bad, too. My parents and to a lesser extent, me, grew up in an era where we were terrified of our privacy being violated by the government. I now live in a world where people invite the wiretaps into their house and call them cute names like "Alexa," and are happy to trade their privacy for the ability to know if they need an umbrella or not, before they look out the window.**

 **Okay, okay, I'm on my soapbox again and I'm sorry. But, I really wish people would start giving their privacy a little more value.**

 **Anyway, feel free to review if the spirit strikes you. Or, not if you don't. And until the next time? Peace Out!**

 **Willow**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Mox's crying was never mentioned by anyone ever, at least not to him. Not by Roman or Lance, who Mox knew had left the room so they wouldn't watch him cry. Not by Jen, who Mox was sure had been told by Lance or Roman when they left him. Not even by Sefa, who stayed with Mox the entire time he cried.

When the tears and sobs finally stopped, Sefa asked him if he wanted to go to bed. Exhausted both emotionally and physically, Mox had nodded. Sefa let him walk up the stairs with his crutches, but he stayed behind Mox to steady him if needed.

When they got into Roman's room, the bed Mox had used was now made neatly and there was a pair of boxer type shorts lying on the bed, along with a white T-shirt. "Can I take a shower or something?" Mox blurted out. He had washed his hands and face since his roll in the ditch, but he hadn't really had a chance to clean his whole body. The shorts and t-shirt looked so clean, he didn't want them to get dirty from him. He tried not to cringe as he waited for an answer. Showers were something he'd had to earn most of his life, and so far, he hadn't earned anything around here. But, he also was pretty sure that the Reigns liked things _and_ people to be clean.

Sefa nodded, then said, "It might be hard for you to keep balance in the shower. Hold on, I've got just the thing," and he left the room.

While he was gone, Mox went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth, because he had the feeling that was expected of him. To brush his teeth, with toothpaste, twice a day. As he finished, Sefa came into the bedroom with a small, metal and plastic bench without a back. When he saw Mox looking at him from the bathroom, he walked in with the bench. "Here, you can sit on this," he said, moving and putting it in the bathtub. "We got this for Lance, but he doesn't need it anymore."

So, Mox had ended up taking a shower while sitting, which wasn't the easiest thing to do, but a lot easier than trying to balance on on one foot. Roman's shower had one of those detachable shower heads, which made things a whole lot easier. Sefa had unwrapped his ankle so he could wash it. He let Mox get undressed alone, for which Mox was grateful When he'd drawn the shower curtain around him, he heard Sefa leave the room, come back for a moment, then leave again. When he was done with the shower, Mox realized that Sefa had left the shorts and T-shirt folded up on the lid of the toilet. Mox carefully got out of the shower, using the bench and one crutch and dried himself off with one of those white, fluffy towels he'd seen when he woke up earlier. When he finished drying himself, he inspected the towel, pleased to see it was still mostly white, which meant that he'd gotten pretty clean, even having to sit on that bench.

When he came out of the bathroom, Sefa was waiting to bandage his ankle again, with a fresh, clean, stretchy bandage. He wrapped it tightly, but not too tight. Mox had run the hottest water he could stand over it in the shower, and the heat combined with the bandage made his ankle feel so much better. Sefa also gave him two pills for his pain. They were the same ones he'd gotten the night before, and he knew they wouldn't do anything but take away the pain. But that was okay. Even if they could get him wasted, he was so tired, he'd be asleep before they kicked in and that would be a waste of a good buzz.

When his ankle was wrapped, Sefa pulled down the sheets and blanket, and Mox crawled into bed. Jen had changed his bed for him, which surprised and pleased him. He was sure he'd probably gotten dirt from the ditch on the sheets, and she must have seen that and changed them. Clean sheets were another rare thing in Mox's world, unless whatever basement he was locked in had a washer and dryer. Then he would try to wash his sheets, especially after… _don't think about that,_ he ordered himself.

Wearing clean clothes, lying in a clean bed, and freshly showered, the day caught up with Mox and he was asleep by the time Sefa walked out of the room, shutting off the light as he did.

* * *

Roman had a football game Sunday afternoon, so he ended up going to the late night mass with his mother and Marc. Sefa stayed home in case Mox woke up, and for Lance, who just didn't go to church at all anymore, something Roman found a bit bewildering, because if _anyone_ should believe in God, it was Lance. Too much had happened in Lance's short life to confirm to Roman that God existed and God had a heavy hand in Lance's being alive. Strangely though, the very thing that made him sure God was real, was the same thing that Lance said made him believe he wasn't. Their mother too, was sure that Lance was favored by God, and she was hurt that he stopped believing. Their father though, had been firm that Lance had the right, even as young as he had been and still was, to decide for himself. "If it's meant to be, God and Lance will reconcile," was his Dad's opinion.

His mother had driven them to Mass. Roman wished he could have, because he really wanted the practice so he could get his license soon, but Mom said he drove too fast, and she wouldn't let Marc drive because he drove too slow.

On the way to church, Roman got to ride shotgun, and his mother asked him the usual questions, like had he done his homework, (of course he had, Coach had strict rules about grades staying up if you wanted to stay on the team) did he think his team would win tomorrow, all of the typical stuff. In fact, Roman might have completely forgotten about the pale stranger calling himself Mox who was living in the house, if she hadn't asked him if he minded sharing his room with him. "I know you finally got your own room again when Marc moved to the other house, and I feel bad we took it away from you. We probably could set Mox up in the den, if you really wanted."

Roman thought about the den, where Mox had been put to rest after he carried him into the house. The room was so much tinier than even just half of his room, had only a tiny closet, and the nearest bathroom didn't have a tub or a shower. He knew he would hate it if that was his room. "I don't mind sharing," he said. "Let's just hope he doesn't fart in his sleep like Marc does."

"I do not!" Marc protested.

"Oh, yes you do." Roman said. "You fart half the night away. It's like all day you are so uptight that your sphincter just holds on to everything and waits until you're asleep to relax enough to let it out. I remember waking up a couple times and opening the window, even though it was hot and muggy out, just so I could breathe."

"You're exaggerating," Marc said.

"I am not," Roman retorted. "Remember, I had to go to bed before you, because I was younger. The obnoxious vapors rising from your bed would wake me up, they were so bad."

"Obnoxious vapors?" Marc repeated with a snort. "That sounds like something Lance would say."

"I'm trying to be less vulgar for Mom's sake," Roman said and looked over at his mother. "I really don't mind if Mox stays in my room, as long as he doesn't mind."

"Thank you," Mom said, reaching out with one hand and patting him on the shoulder quickly. She ignored the flatulence discussion, because saying anything would only encourage it. "I appreciate it."

"Are we going to keep him or something?" Roman asked. He'd been wondering about this all day. He knew that as long as the kid didn't have a home and his ankle was bad, his mom wasn't going to let him go anywhere, but a sprained ankle didn't take that long to heal, just a few weeks normally.

"Roman, he's not a puppy, you know. But, we do want him to stay with us for now," his mother said. "At some point though, we have to find out if someone is looking for him, or has been looking for him."

"He thinks his mother sold him," Roman said, feeling he might be betraying a confidence, but knowing his parents had the right to know what they were getting into. "I told him that I thought his so-called father was a liar, so he probably lied about that, but I don't know if I convinced him or not."

Roman had the feeling if she wasn't driving, she would have given him one of her long looks. "You know he's had a pretty rough life, don't you?"

Roman nodded. "He's got a great collection of scars on his back and a few on his upper arms. And, he cringes if anyone gets too close. He reminds me of some of the cats we have that hang out around the camp to catch lizards and mice and stuff. The feral ones that run away if you even look at them."

"Unlike Einstein," His mother agreed with a slight smile. "That cat thinks he owns the world."

"Nah," Marc said from the back seat, "He's willing to co-own it with Lance."

Roman chuckled, then grew serious. "I think if Mox's ankle wasn't hurt, he'd be trying to get away." He did not mention that Mox indeed _was_ trying to get away when he'd seen him on the road that afternoon. Roman had been in his father's office, doing his homework at the big desk, when he looked out the window and saw him heading down the road, obviously trying to get away as fast as he could, which fortunately, wasn't that fast. Roman had caught up to him easily.

"Do you think so, even now?" his mother asked. "I thought he might have been trying this afternoon, when you carried him in. I should have thought about that before I just let him go out and wander, but I didn't know that the poor guy thought he was a living bomb."

"He didn't tell us last night when we picked him up," Marc said. "But I think he was dazed. I mean, just one look at him and you know he's a stranger to this world. He's been living in isolation for a long time."

"I don't think he's lived in complete isolation," Jen said, and her voice took on a grim tone. "I think he's been...badly treated by a lot of people. We're positive his father abused, and almost as positive that his father's friend did too. But I suspect he's met more people, possibly a _lot_ more people, who were just like his father and his father's friend."

"I wondered the same thing," Marc confessed, "there's something about him that says he knows more than he should about things he shouldn't and less about things he should."

"That about sums it up," his mother agreed, as she pulled into the church parking lot. And Roman had to agree, that was a pretty good way of putting it.

* * *

Roman tried to concentrate on Mass, but he found his mind wandering back to their visitor, to the point where his mother nudged him when it was time to stand or sit or kneel. But no matter how hard he tried to concentrate, his mind kept going back to Mox. Roman usually got along well with people, he considered himself a good judge of character, usually knowing shortly after meeting someone if they were worth being friends with. But Mox was unlike anyone Roman had ever met in his life, and he wasn't sure what he thought of the guy. Part of him felt he didn't _know_ the guy either. Not like he knew his friends, not even like he knew people in school he wasn't friends with more than to nod at each other if they saw each other out of school. And part of him worried that he might never get to know _who_ Mox was.

 _It's like all that bad shit that's happened has covered him up and nobody can see who he is,_ he thought, then promptly asked for God's forgiveness for mentally swearing in a church. _And I know Mom is being as tactful as possible, but I know what she means, he's been sexually abused._

From an early age, his parents had made it clear to him that his body was just that, his. With the exception of a doctor, and even in that case, one of his parents would always be with him, no one was allowed to touch him if he didn't want it. And they kept to their word. He'd been a cute little kid, and women always wanted to pat his hair, or give him a hug, and like many, if not most kids, Roman didn't often like that. When he was real young, he'd just scream, "No!" but as he got older, he learned to duck away and say, "Please don't touch me." And his parents always backed him up. And they never left him alone at the doctor's either. The only real exceptions to the rule was his immediate family. You couldn't live with people all the time and not expect to get touched by them, it was impossible. Especially when you were a middle child and your older brother wanted to wrestle with you when you were being a big pain in the butt, and not the type of wrestling his father taught at the Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy, and your youngest brother liked to sometimes come into your room when he had nightmares and crawl into bed with you, or expect you to come to his room, because he had a much bigger and better bed.

The warnings about sexual abuse at school had been pretty vague. If anyone touches you in a way that makes you feel uncomfortable, you get away as fast as you can, and tell your parents, or a teacher, or a member of the church, because he'd always gone to Catholic school and of course a Catholic school would tell you to tell a priest. But no detail on where was bad to be touched. Still, he remembered he and his friends talking about it, and agreeing that they were talking about their junk, because your junk was something that was always considered embarrassing to discuss. All of them agreed that having anyone but you touch your junk was weird, even when a doctor did. Roman remembered when he was about five, getting "it" stuck in a zipper and nothing had been more painful. His mother had been the one to hear him shrieking and came rushing and helped him, and while she was helping him, all he could think about was that he just wanted the pain to stop, because it was the worst pain he'd ever felt in his life. But later, when he was okay, and doctor had checked him out to make sure he was okay, he remembered feeling embarrassed about the whole thing and had trouble looking his mother in the eyes for a bit. Eventually, though, he got over it. Faster than it had taken for the zipper cut to heal. That had been pretty painful for awhile. So he understood that yeah, nobody was supposed to touch you. What he didn't understand back then was why someone would _want_ to.

Of course he got older, puberty hit, and suddenly he really wished someone, preferably Nichole Brown, a girl who sat next to him in math, _would_ touch his junk. And he wished she would let him touch her "down there" as well as "Up there" because even though they were only eleven or so, Nichole had bumps on her chest that got Roman mighty curious.

But there had been another girl, one in his home room and in a couple of his classes, a girl named Elizabeth, but everyone called her "Lizzy." He'd known Lizzy from Kindergarten, and even though they weren't really friends, they weren't enemies either. And as far as he could tell, Lizzy was about as normal as a girl could be, until about fourth grade, where she suddenly became sullen and withdrawn most of the time. She started looking messy too. Her hair, which used to be clean and shining, typical girl hair, suddenly was greasy and tangled most of the time. Instead of her school uniform being clean and pressed, like most of the other girls, hers was rumpled and usually had stains on them. When the other girls began pushing at the "One inch from the bottom of the knee cap" rule about their skirts, she started showing up in skirts that completely covered her knees, even when she sat down.

She also began pushing everyone away from her, all her friends, the teachers, everyone. She became known for getting into fights for no reason, not just yelling matches, like girls usually did, she'd attack people physically. It was strange, she would be okay for a few days, sullen and messy, but just sitting in her chair, not saying much, never volunteering in class, but at least she would answer when spoken to, but then one day she would just flip out and someone would ask her something minor, like if she'd mind moving her book bag so they could get by her in the isle and she would go after them. She had almost punched _him_ in the face once, because he just asked her if she had an extra pencil he could borrow. When he put his arm up to block her, she tried to kick him in the junk. He had dodged that, but a teacher had seen and they _both_ got sent to the principal's office. Lizzy didn't deny she had attacked him. She hadn't said _anything_ , just sat there looking angry, with her arms crossed. She had her blazer off, and Roman could see sweat stains under her arms. They both were suspended for the day, which Roman thought was very unfair, but you just didn't argue with Father Sullivan. But, he'd asked Roman and his mother to stay behind when Lizzy left with her mother. Her mother, who seemed really angry at Lizzy and snapped at her that Lizzy had better stop 'all this crap,' which amazed Roman, because he'd never met anyone who would say crap in front of a priest. And he had the feeling what Lizzy's mom had _wanted_ to say and almost _had_ said was 'shit.'

When Lizzy and her mother were gone, Father Sullivan told them that Lizzy's mother had remarried and Lizzy was having trouble adjusting, because she had been so used to having her mother all to herself, her father having left when she was a baby. And he just advised that Roman stay away from her until she got sorted out. Roman remembered being a little surprised it was taking so long for her to get "sorted out," seeing that this had been going on since they were about nine and they were now eleven, but he'd taken that advice, not talking to her ever again. Then all of a sudden, Lizzy stopped coming to school. Just _stopped_ , and all the nuns and every member of the staff and even the other kids just acted like she'd never existed. She'd only had one friend by then, another girl named Tonya and one time he asked her if she knew if Lizzy was okay. It wasn't that he really cared, but it did seem weird that she just disappeared like that. You'd think _someone_ would have told them. Like when a kid moved, usually their homeroom teacher would tell them. Sometimes they'd know for a long time before they were leaving and their last day of school, everyone would say goodbye and all of that.

Tonya had frowned. "She's moved," she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "She's not living with her mother anymore, she's living with her aunt in New Mexico."

"Did something happen to her mother and stepfather?" Roman asked, thinking that something bad must have happened, like her mother must have died or something.

Tonya hesitated, then her fist clenched and her nostrils flared and she blurted out, "Her stepfather was messing with her, Roman. You know, having sex with her. Since she was _nine._ She told her mother, but her mother accused _her_ of lying because she didn't want her mother to be happy." Tonya looked disgusted.

"Did you know this was going on?" Roman asked, feeling slightly nauseous. The idea of someone who was probably close to his father's age, having sex with a nine year old was stomach churning.

"No, of course not. Not until she finally had enough," Tonya said. "Because if I _had_ known, I would have called the cops on her stepfather. And if the cops tried to blow the whole thing off? I would have gone to her house and kicked her stepfather right where it hurts the most." Tonya was tough. Not like the girls in school that hid under the bleachers in the field and smoked cigarettes, tough, Tonya was a good girl who got good grades and all of that, but she was one of those people who really didn't like to see anyone else getting picked on and she made sure everyone knew it, too. Roman had seen her go up to kids twice her size who were picking on the younger kids and tell them off. Roman sort of liked her, but he was sort of afraid of her, too. He didn't pick on kids himself, at least not often, but there was something about Tonya that said clearly, "do not get on her bad side."

"So what happened after she finally told you?" Roman asked, not sure if he wanted to know, but knowing he _had_ to know. This was a train wreck and everybody looked at the train wreck, even if they didn't want to.

Tonya told him how she, Tonya, had told her parents, who went to Lizzy's house right away, leaving Lizzy home with Tonya and the housekeeper. Later, her parents told Tonya that Lizzy's mother and stepfather denied everything, of course. But, they had agreed that maybe Lizzy needed a "change of scenery" and sent her to live with her aunt. When Roman had asked why her stepfather hadn't been arrested, Tonya shrugged. "Her word versus his word and people like him know how to cover their tracks. Lizzy's messed up, you ought to know that. She won't make a good witness if it goes to court, at least not for awhile. But, she's got some time. I hope that after she's been up with her aunt for a while, she'll realized that she's _got_ to get her stepfather punished for this. Because if she doesn't, he'll find another girl. They _always_ find another girl. But she's not ready, not now." Roman remembered being a little surprised at how Tonya was talking, like she was a detective or a lawyer on a TV show or something, but then again, Tonya's parents were both lawyers and she had probably picked it up from them.

What happened to Lizzy had really bothered Roman. Again, it wasn't as if Lizzy was a friend of his, but she had been a nice enough person having a pretty good life until the fourth grade, and now she was a wreck and he'd watched her going from normal to nasty and he never _did_ anything, didn't even have a clue what was happening to her. He'd always believed that being forced to do sexal things was a terrible thing, but he didn't realize until Lizzy, how it could shatter someone to the point where they weren't the same person anymore. He had never seen Lizzy again, and he hoped that if she was still living with her aunt, that she had gotten over all that had happened, but Roman suspected you never really _did_ get over something like that. Oh, sure, you could try to fix it and maybe you could get a whole lot better, but nothing could ever take it away from you. It would always be there, like getting a bad wound. It might scar over even, but it would never disappear.

And even though Tonya never said he shouldn't tell anyone, he hadn't. He had the feeling that something about him made Tonya feel she could talk about it with him and she _had_ to talk about it, because just hearing about it from Lizzy had hurt Tonya, because Tonya felt she should have known if was happening.

 _And now I have someone sharing my room who's probably had it even worse than Lizzy,_ Roman thought. _So, the question is, is there something left of Mox? Or has he just become all that crap that was thrown at him? Is there a Mox at the center? And if so, how is he going to find himself?_

* * *

Roman hadn't been the only one thinking about Mox instead of concentrating on Mass. Marc had been doing his own thinking on the same subject and wasn't sure if meeting up with him was a good thing or not. For Mox himself, it was, the kid needed help, but Marc was worried that Mox wasn't very stable. Marc wasn't too worried about his father or Roman, both of them could take care of themselves, should this Mox lose it and go after them. But he _did_ worry about Lance and his mother. His mother was no weakling, but still, once Mox got a little weight on him, would he be able to overpower her? And Lance, of course. Not just that Lance was young, because emotionally, Lance was beyond his years, but a lot had happened to his baby brother, more than most people go through, and yet Lance had mostly remained the same smart, outgoing, cheerful kid he'd always been. He didn't want to see this Mox hurt him. If Lance made it to adulthood, life would hurt him enough, as it did everyone, eventually, but Marc wanted him to be a kid as long as he could.

 _I don't think he'll do to Lance what was done to him,_ Marc though. _I think he's had it so bad and doesn't want to see anyone else hurt like he was. But, what if he starts telling Lance what happened to him? Tells him_ exactly _how horrible it was? That could affect anyone, but especially a kid like Lance._

On the way home from Mass, Roman got the back seat and thus Marc was riding shotgun. He looked over at his mother. "Uh, if you'd prefer, Mox can stay at the other house with me," he offered. "I've got two extra bedrooms."

His mother looked at him with a quick smile, then turned her attention back to the road. "Thank you, Marc. That's generous of you. But you have a right to a life. A teenager living with you, especially one like Jon, could really… affect your life more than you realize. And, if it comes down to your father and I fostering him, I don't think the courts will approve of him sleeping somewhere else, even if it is on the same property."

"Yeah," Marc said, with a slight sigh. "I'm just worried about Lance. I mean, Lance isn't stupid, he knows a lot of bad things have happened to that kid, but I don't know if he knows how bad and deep it probably goes. I get that Mox is probably going to need to talk about it, but I don't think Lance needs to hear about it. And you know Lance, he's already curious. He wants to know everything about Mox, I'm actually surprised he's not scheming to get him alone so he can drill him on his life."

"Your Father and I have thought of that," Jen said, _not_ adding that they had also discussed the possibility that Mox might try to do to Lance what was done to him. She was fairly confident that wasn't going to be a problem. "Your father is taking him to the doctor tomorrow, and he's going to talk to him a bit on the way. Tell him that we'll do what we can to help him, but he's got to respect things here and that Lance is not the person he should talk to about his past. I've also told Lance that he's not allowed to pry into Mox's background."

"Oh, I'll bet _that_ went over well," Marc said, sarcastically.

"It could have gone worse," his mother said. "I explained to him that Mox isn't ready to talk very much about his past, but that he's told us enough that we all know it was horrible. And that it would be cruel for Lance to go after Mox, trying to get him to relive what he's been through. Lance, for all his curiosity and intelligence, is compassionate. He does understood that Mox has been through way too much and that he shouldn't grill him on his past."

"Did you make him promise?" Marc asked.

"Yes," Jen said, grinning a bit. "And he did promised. I know you feel almost like another parent to Lance, he was born when you were so much older, but honestly, your father and I raised you and your brother. We both feel we're pretty good at the job."

"You raised me a whole lot more than Dad did," Marc pointed out. "I mean, I know Dad was doing what he had to do, but he was gone way more than he was home when I was growing up."

"That's true," Jen agreed. "But when he could be home, he tried his best to be a good father, and he was. He's been with Lance since he was born, and you have to admit, he's a great full time father, too."

"Don't get me wrong, I think you _and_ Dad are great parents," Marc said. "But Lance can be enough of a challenge. Do you think you can handle Mox?"

Jen sighed. "We don't even know yet that we'll have Jon for long. There's a good chance there is someone out there who lost her son all these years ago, and still misses him. I know if Jon was one of my kids, I would want them back. Because not a day would have gone by that I hadn't prayed to God that they were alive and all right."

* * *

It was late when they got home, and while Roman was pretty sure Marc would go out and party, or call up a girl and have her come over. Roman though, just wanted to go to bed. He could have gone to an earlier Saturday mass and then gone out, but with Mox around, he'd told his friends that he was just going to hang out at home. Besides, he'd get sleep now, which would help his game tomorrow. On top of that, he'd been invited to about six parties and he knew there would be beer and pot at all of them, and possibly even more. Maybe some other kids on the team were willing to risk it, but Roman was not. He wasn't a wuss and when it wasn't football season, he was known to do some drinking, but only with friends that he trusted, because while coach hadn't said he was watching them when it wasn't football season, Roman wasn't taking any chances.

The Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy made fairly good money, Roman and his brothers had never lacked for anything, but when Lance was sick, that had cost the family a lot of money. Even though the WWF had helped, and the town had put on more than one fundraiser, cancer wasn't cheap. And while his folks hadn't said anything, Roman was pretty sure any money put away for college for him was gone. He knew his Grandmother was well off, and had helped pay for Lance's cancer and would probably help Roman go to college, but Roman was going to do it himself. He was good at football, _really_ good, and even better, he loved it as well. Football was going to get him into a good college and not cost his parents a dime. And, if he was good as coach said he was, he'd probably be able to go pro.

As he headed to his bedroom, he stopped and went into Lance's room to check on him. He was sound asleep, but there was a lit flashlight on the floor, and the corner of a book peeking out from under the covers. And Einstein, of course, curled up next to his head. Roman smiled; clearly, Lance had been reading in bed, and had fallen asleep. He picked up the flashlight, turned it off, and put it in his nightstand drawer, knowing if he left it out and their parents saw it, they would confiscate it. Then, he gently took the book from the bed. There was a bookmark on the nightstand, and he used that to mark the page, and then put the book on top of the nightstand. He glanced at the title, _Fermat's Enigma: The Epic Quest to Solve The Worlds Greatest Mathematical Problem,_ By Simon Sing _._ Just the title told Roman this was a book that he, personally, would find boring. Lance was a voracious reader, and his bookcases were filled with books that covered a wide range of topics. And were written for a wide variety of ages. When he'd been too sick to be able to concentrate, the family had taken turns reading to him. Roman had particularly enjoyed reading to him from the Harry Potter series and had gotten him _The Goblet of Fire_ last Christmas. Lance already had borrowed it from the library, but he'd appreciated having his own copy. He'd also, casually left it in Roman's room at one point, left it on the bed Mox was now using. Roman knew he'd done it so he could get a chance to read it, and he had. In Roman's opinion, the series kept getting better and better and he hoped the next one would be out soon. Not that he told many people this, a lot of his friends considered Harry Potter to be "Kids books" but the more the series continued, the less like kids books they seemed.

Once he was sure Lance was set, and there was no evidence of his nefarious acts of reading when he should have been sleeping, Roman went to his bedroom. _Or, maybe I should think of it as Mox and my bedroom?_

The room was dark, the only source of light the night light in the hall, a pale orange light that hardly lit up anything, and the old fashioned digital clock that had a tiny yellowish light. but Roman didn't need light to tell him Mox was having a bad dream. He could hear him tossing and turning on the bed, and softly moaning. Roman stepped closer, realizing Mox was talking too, saying things like, "No, I won't do it!" "I don't care, I won't do it!" "You can't make me!" The theme was the same with every comment, there was something in the realm of nightmares that wanted Mox to do something and he was refusing.

 _I have a feeling if I touch him to wake him up, he'll flip out_ , Roman thought. "Mox," He called, trying to speak softly at first. When that didn't work, he raised his voice a bit. "Mox? Mox, wake up." Mox continued to thrash in the bed, still refusing to do what his nighttime demons were demanding of him. _Shit, I don't want to yell, that might wake Lance, and bring Mom and Dad running._ Roman had dealt with his own fair share of nightmares, and sometimes, having his folks run in to comfort him, as if he were just a kid, embarrassed him. But he couldn't let Mox continue with this, because he had a feeling that if it didn't stop soon, Mox would start yelling. So, he flipped the wall switch, flooding the room with light and called out, "Mox!" as loud as he dared.

Mox's eyes flew open and he sat up in bed like a shot. In doing so, his ankle, which was amazingly still on the pillow that had been given to rest it on, fell off the pillow and he yelped. It was one sharp yip, and then he went silent. Roman froze in place, waiting to hear if his brother was waking up, or if his parents would come racing up the stairs. He heard nothing but the heavy breathing of Mox, who was blinking, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the light.

When several seconds passed, Roman let out a breath. "You were having a nightmare," he said, as if Mox couldn't have figured that out for himself.

"Yeah," Mox agreed, looking around the room in that slow, deliberate way people who had nightmares would do, as if trying to familiarize and assure themselves that this was the waking world, not just an offshoot of the nightmare.

"Are you okay?" Roman asked.

"My ankle hurts like a motherfucker now," Mox said in a matter-of-fact voice.

"Do you want me to get some ice for it?" Roman offered, even though he knew that if he went downstairs to get ice, his mother would ask what was going on and no doubt insist she went with Roman to make sure Mox's ankle was okay.

Mox might have concluded the same thing, because he shook his head quickly. "I just need to rest it." He gritted his teeth and forced himself to put his ankle back on the pillow.

"That sounded like it was a really bad nightmare," Roman said, trying to sound casual.

"Nightmares are God's way of warning you what will happen wh-if you go to Hell," Mox said flatly, then added in a warmer tone, "I'm sorry if I woke you."

"Yeah, because I always sleep in my church clothes, with my bed made," Roman said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

"I dunno," Mox said, shrugging. "Maybe you're weird like that. Maybe you sleep standing up, like a horse or a cow."

"Do I _look_ like a horse or a cow?" Roman asked.

"No," Mox admitted. "But some might say you're built like a bull."

At that, Roman grinned. "I am Roman Reigns!" he said in a mock Russian accent, sounding far more like Boris on those Bullwinkle cartoons than anyone truly from Russia. He raised his arms in the typical weight lifter pose to show off his muscles. "I strong, like bull!"

"Well, I ain't gonna piss you off if I can help it," Mox said with another shrug. "You could kick the shit out of me."

"Probably," Roman agreed, because truth was truth. "But, I won't."

"Why? Afraid your coach will find out and toss you off the team?" Mox asked and Roman wasn't sure if he was teasing him to be mean or funny.

"I generally don't kick the shit out of people, unless they deserve it," Roman said and now it was his turn to shrug, "And you've done nothing to deserve it."

"Give me time," Mox said, with a faint sigh. "I'm pretty good at pissing people off."

"You mean like Sam and the guy you called your father?" Roman asked.

Mox shrugged this time, using only one shoulder. "Them and their friends. Of course, some of them didn't need me to act up to be pissed off at me, just my being there was enough."

Roman winced, then sat down on his own bed, so he could face Mox. "Did that guy you called your father have another name?"

"I'm sure he did, but I don't know what it was," Mox admitted. "Sam never called him by name, and every place we moved to, he'd get a new name. If I called him anything but Father, or Dad, he'd whack me upside the head, or worse."

Roman tried not to wince again, but it was almost an automatic reflex when Mox talked like this. "Well, I feel weird calling him your father, and 'that guy you called your father' is a little long. Do you mind if I just call him Richard?"

Mox's brows furrowed. "Richard? Why?"

"Because the nickname for Richard is Dick, and that's what he was," Roman explained.

That got a genuine grin from Mox, the first one Roman had seen and he hoped he would see more of it. When Mox grinned, for just a flash, a fraction of a second, he had an almost cocky look, _That's Mox,_ Roman found himself thinking. _That's the person who is under all the crap that's been dumped on him, that's the guy that needs to be rescued._

"You can call him Richard if you want," Mox said, "Hell, you can call him Sir Cocksucker for all I care. But if you start calling him Richard, your folks might wonder if that really is his name, and when you tell them no, they'll likely ask why you picked Richard."

Roman shook his head. "My Dad will know, instantly. Calling guys Richard because they're dicks is something I picked up from him."

"Is Lance on the family joke?"

Roman shrugged. "Yeah, I think so. I mean, I've heard him call jerks, Richard. I can't say for total certainty that he knows we're really saying the person is a dick as in penis, but it wouldn't surprise me if he had figured it out. You've probably noticed, Lance isn't a stupid kid."

"Yeah, he seems pretty put together for a kid," Mox agreed. "Not that I've met many kids his age, and when I have, it hasn't been under the best of circumstances, but he shines a little brighter than most."

Roman nodded, then tipped his head to one side. "You've met other kids?" he asked.

Mox frowned and bit his lip, looking nervous, as if he'd given away information he didn't want to. "Not many," he finally said. "But a few." He paused and sighed, as if he was deciding something, then flopped on the bed, so he was facing the ceiling. "I'm not the only person who grew up like I did. I mean, I was the only kid growing up with my fa-, I mean, Richard and Sam, but they weren't the only people who bought, or should I say, _took_ a child. And I'm pretty sure I wasn't the first kid Richard and Sam grabbed. I might have been with them the longest, but I don't think I was the first."

"What do you think happened to the others?" Roman asked, his throat suddenly feeling dry.

Mox turned his head to stare at him. "They went to live in the Enchanted Kingdom," he said, then scowled. "What do you _think_ happened to them?"

"I don't know," Roman said, swallowing, trying to moisten his throat. He wasn't sure he wanted to know either.

"They're probably dead," Mox said, trying to look matter-of-fact, but Roman saw the edges of his eyes glistening slightly. "My fa-, I mean, Richard and Sam weren't always very easy to get along with. And they didn't like kids who cried or complained, or didn't cooperate. And their idea of a solution to a problem was to get rid of it."

"Shit," Roman said, trying not to look queasy. "You think they _killed_ them?"

Mox looked away, back up at the ceiling. "Yeah. Or, gave them to someone else to do the job. There are people out there who get off on killing people, and people who get off even more on killing children."

"You're lucky," Roman said. "You managed to survive longer and then get away."

Mox sighed and refused to look at him. "I don't know if I'm lucky or not. I don't know if my being able to survive the situation was a good thing or not. It probably says a lot of bad things about what type of person I am. And I think the only reason why I'm still alive is that I'm too stubborn, or maybe too stupid to just roll over and die. Or, too chickenshit to refuse them until they lost their shit and finally took it one step too far."

"Refuse to do, what?" Roman asked, even though he was sure that he had a good idea and that he didn't want to know the details.

Mox kept staring at the ceiling. "Go to bed, Roman." It wasn't a suggestion. "I'm tired and I need to get some sleep. I don't think I'll have any more nightmares."

While Roman wanted to object on principle, a greater part of him was too relieved that Mox hadn't told him more. He knew it would be good to get him to open up, but Roman wasn't sure he could handle the gory details. He liked a good horror movie just as much as the next guy, but this was so much more than horror, and it was real life, too. Rising from the bed, he turned out the overhead light. With the darkness to cover him, he stripped down to his boxer and T-shirt and went to bed. But, for a long time, he stared at the ceiling. He wondered if Mox was doing the same, but then began to hear the soft, even, breathing that indicated sleep, and for that, he was glad.

* * *

 **Special thanks to everyone who R/R F/F or just read this story and liked it. Your support is appreciated.**

 **Authors Notes: This might get a little long, so yeah, most of it you can skip. But I would appreciate it if you at least read this part one thing:**

 _ **I had no idea what Joe's announcement was going to be when I started this story. I have said before it's already completely roughed out and I didn't lie. It will be eighteen parts long. I had no idea that Joe has dealt with cancer, nor that it was Leukemia. I don't know if I would have changed the story or not, but I don't think so. But I just want folks to know that I did not throw in Roman Reigns little brother is a Leukemia survivor for shits and giggles.**_

 **Okay, if you are the type of person that gets bored at reading about the magic/process that people go through to write? You're done. See ya next time. But for those that want to know, I'll tell you more.**

 **If you know me well enough, you know I'm in remission from Large B Cell Non Hodgkins Lymphoma, Stage III. Stage III means I was lucky enough not to have it in my bone marrow. But I had it in most of my lymph nodes and some of my other organs. I've dealt with it twice in rapid succession. I'm lucky though, and I don't ask for sympathy. I was a whole lot luckier than most people, to the point where I actually wish that Joe's cancer treatments go as easy or easier than mine did. I never threw up. I had a lot of other fun symptoms, but I never even got nauseous. I got queasy, once. That's it.**

 **So, at this point, it would probably be natural to think that I made Lance a cancer survivor, so I could project myself onto him. But, you would be wrong. Lance was created in my gaming world as a cancer survivor shortly after we decided to add the Shield to our gaming world, which is shortly after Shield appeared. There are reasons why he was made a cancer survivor, but we haven't come to that point and I don't want to give spoilers. But Lance was a survivor of Leukemia long before I found out I had lymphoma.**

 **When I originally set out to write this story, I had a friend of mine read it. She's not a wrestling fan, she just likes to read and is kind enough to read this stuff. Yes, sometimes I've told her, "You have to understand wrestling to get this..." but most of the time, what I want her to do is to help me with the parts that are so heavily based on the gaming world that I'm not always sure I'm being clear. So, at first my plans were to make Lance just intelligent, not a cancer survivor. But, as my friend is reading chapters, she told me, "There is something off about Lance. Something you're not telling the readers, but I think it matters to the story.** "

 **So, I went back and tore things apart and put them back together and made Lance the cancer survivor he is in my world.**

 **And, yeah, since I am in remission, he did become my voice. He's brilliant (which is why I don't usually "play" his character as much as my husband and Betagirl do/did. Because I'm not as smart as they are and when Lance gets older, I start to fail) but he's also nine freakin' years old. He's bright as hell, intelligent as hell, but not very wise. He sees the world the way he wants to see it, and he has no problem expressing his opinion.**

 **Lance is fucking precocious as hell. That's the best way I can describe him. So, yeah, it's been kind of therapeutic for me to be able to have this character who I can use to sort through my own feelings about what I went through as filtered by a precocious nine year old. Things I've felt but haven't wanted to say because I'm an adult. And, because I live in the South.**

 **So yeah, that's the reason. I did not make Lance a cancer survivor to in any way duplicate the situation Joe Anoa'i is going through. Again, I don't write about the actors, I write about the characters.**

T **he real life situation as Joe? Damn... just damn. I hope he's going to be okay. And I hope _his_ faith can see him through. Cancer broke mine.**

 **All of you who read this far? Thank you for giving me a chance to explain. I did a lot of soul searching if I should take down the story, but I figure if RAW can continue to have Dean beat the crap out of Seth, because the show must go on, I don't think I'm being too offensive by having a series of coincidences in mine.**

 **Art imitates life. But in my case, life imitates art imitates life imitates art.**

 **Peace Out**

 **Willow.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The next morning, Mox woke up before Roman, who was sprawled on his bed, looking dead to the world. As he fumbled for his crutches, Mox saw the two painkillers and glass of water on his side of the bedside table. He wondered if it was Jen or Sefa who had brought them, and when they had done it. Was it later the night before, after he and Roman had their little talk, or did Jen perhaps slip in this morning, on her way to the kitchen to make breakfast, and leave them, worried Mox would wake up in pain? Then, he wondered why he was even taking the time to contemplate this at all. Normally, when he woke up, his first thought was how would he get through the day? Would he be locked up alone in the basement? If so, would the TV/VCR be working? Would a light be on so he could re-read the back of his tapes, or one of the few children's books left down here, that he was really too old to be reading, but they were the only books he had? Or, would this be a work day? If so, what was he expected to do, and what would he do to deal with it? Would he get to eat today? If so, what would he get? Normally, all his attention was focused on one thing, making it through the day. Weighing his options. Was he healthy enough to endure a beating and should he risk it? The answer to that one was usually no, which sometimes made him feel bad. It wasn't that he liked being beaten, it took a very strange person to love being beaten, but sometimes Mox felt like getting beaten was a way of washing a bit, just a _tiny_ bit, of the bad he spent so much of his time wading in, away.

Now, the biggest thought on his mind was, _how did those Ibuprofen and water get here?_ Well, that and, _can I get in and out of the bathroom before Roman wakes up and needs it?_ But they were such simple thoughts and simple problems. He still wasn't completely sure of these people, the Reigns family seemed a little too good to be true, but he was pretty confident that they weren't going to beat him, or at least not as badly as his father ( _No, Richard,_ he mentally corrected himself) and Sam had done. Maybe he'd finally push their buttons to the point where they whacked him around a bit, but he could take that. And he was sure the day would come where they told him it was time to leave, but they seemed perfectly willing to let him stay with them until his ankle was healed.

While he wished he could have waited a few minutes to let the pain pills kick in, Mox's bladder was telling him he really didn't have those few minutes. He got on the crutches and headed to the bathroom, noting they were easier to use today than they had been yesterday.

As he brushed his teeth with his new yellow toothbrush, ( _Maybe yellow isn't such a bad color, after all)_ he realized he was almost looking forward to this day. Then, as if to burst his bubble, he remembered, _Sefa is taking me to see the doctor._

He did believe in the part of his brain that was logical, that he wasn't a living bomb, although he knew there was still a frightened kid inside of him that wasn't sure, but that wasn't why he didn't want to visit the doctor. His fa- ( _No,_ _ **Richard!**_ ) had always told him that doctors would do just as bad, if not worse to him as he and all the others had done to him, it's just they would do it under the guise of 'tests,' and 'examinations.' His father had also told him that a doctor would know very quickly, everything that ever had been done with his body.

" _I know it hurts when Sam set your bones and gives you stitches,"_ he remembered hi- Richard saying. _"But, Timmy, if I take you to a doctor, he'll know what you've been doing. Doctors have ways of figuring it out. And not only will he know what you've been doing, he'll know that there are times when you actually like it._

Part of him wanted to disagree. He never _liked_ it. But, if he was going to be completely honest with himself, there were times when it hadn't felt so bad, times where, yeah, it had even felt pretty good, at least at the time. But just because something felt good, didn't mean you _liked_ it. If you _liked_ something, and it felt good, you probably wouldn't feel horrible when it was over. You probably wouldn't feel hot, angry, and ashamed all rolled into a tight ball, which you had to swallow, and the ball never got smaller, it's just the hole inside of you got bigger, so you got it down quicker, but it still stayed there, with all the other balls, from all the other times, just lying in your guts, never moving, never getting smaller. And you knew that one day, your body would rebel and all those balls you swallowed would end up killing you, because as hard as your body tried to get rid of them, the harder they wanted to stay. You couldn't _like_ something that did that to you, but maybe, to a doctor, something that sometimes made you _feel_ good, would look just the same as something you liked.

He really didn't even _want_ to admit that sometimes it _had_ made him feel good. He didn't want to be accused of liking it. And he really didn't want a _doctor_ telling Sefa he had liked it, or even that sometimes Mox thought it felt good. He could imagine the look of disgust on Sefa's face as he realized that Mox wasn't a victim, like they all thought he was, Sefa would think he'd been a willing participant. And, Sefa would know for sure what he was doing, at least the physical part of it. Mox suspected Sefa and Jen already had a pretty good idea of what had been done to him, and probably what he had been doing, but there is a difference between having a pretty good idea, and knowing exactly.

 _If he finds all of it out, he'll kick me out_ , Mox thought, as he went back into the bedroom and grabbed a clean T-shirt and a clean pair of sweatpants from the pile, and threw them into the bathroom, so he wouldn't have to carry them, then went into the bathroom to change. _He won't want someone like me hanging around with his nice family. Jen won't want me corrupting her kids. Not Lance, Not Roman. Hell, she'll probably think you could corrupt Marc with what you know, and she'd probably be right_.

As he left the bathroom, he saw Roman, sitting up in bed, feet on the floor, yawning, that long hair of his falling around his face, his eyelids still puffy from sleep. "Morning," he grunted to Mox.

Mox muttered something back that he hoped sounded enough like "Good Morning" then headed to the door as fast as he could, refusing to look at Roman. "I'll meet you downstairs," he mumbled.

"Yeah," Roman agreed, his voice sounding more like a yawn than words. "I hope Mom's up and made coffee already."

 _And I hope Sefa has forgotten all about his promise to take me to see a doctor,_ Mox thought _. I wonder if either of our dreams will come true?_

One of the two wishes came to pass, and unfortunately for Mox, it was Roman that was lucky, which figured, because, well, it just seemed that Roman was _supposed_ to be lucky. As Mox came into the kitchen, he could smell the wonderful smells of bacon, and something sweet and mouthwatering, and, of course, coffee.

Sefa was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and looking at the paper. When Mox came into the kitchen, he looked up and folded the paper. "Good morning, Mox."

"Morning," Mox said, making his way to the table. When he sat down, Jen came over with a small plate, which had a round, bread looking thing with a spiral pattern to it. This was where the sweet and wonderful smell was coming from. He stared at the bread thing and looked at Jen.

"Cinnamon rolls," Jen said. "I make them most Sunday mornings and the first three people to come to the table get an extra one. I made nine today, because of you."

"In other words, it's our lucky day and we get two," Sefa said, as Jen put another of the rolls down in front of him. He looked at the roll then looked at his wife, "Have I told you lately that I love you?"

She returned the broad grin he was giving her with one of her own and leaned over to give him a kiss on top of his head. "Everyone knows you only married me for my cooking."

"No, I married you because you were and still are, hot as hell, woman." He put an arm around her, giving her a quick squeeze.

"I'm glad you still think so," she said, patting his shoulder, then they drew apart and she looked at Mox, "Eat it before it gets cold. I'll get you a glass of milk."

"I'd rather have coffee," Mox said.

"Tough luck, you aren't old enough yet," Sefa said. He glanced up at the clock and then back at Mox. "We have to be at the doctor's office at noon."

 _Damn it,_ Mox thought and stared at the roll, wanting to try it, because it smelled way too good, but he wasn't quite sure how to approach it. He'd never encountered a cinnamon roll before, and he wasn't sure if a fork and knife was required, or he could use his hands. He stopped his contemplation to look over at Sefa, "We don't _have_ to go. I don't want to waste your Sunday."

"Nice try, but no dice," Sefa said cheerfully. "Even the maggots get Sunday off." Then he picked up the roll from the plate with his hands and slowly, and deliberately took a bite.

"Maggots?" Mox asked as he followed Sefa's lead and picked up his own roll.

"That's what I call the folks I'm training," Sefa said. "Along with various other colorful names too. They don't pay me to be nice to them, they pay me to turn them into wrestlers and you don't do that by babying them."

Mox had taken his first bite of the cinnamon roll and for a moment, everything was forgotten, and the house could have collapsed on top of him, and he wouldn't have noticed. He'd never had _anything_ like this cinnamon roll, warm and sweet, but not _too_ sweet, a perfect balance of bread, cinnamon, butter, and sweetness. He closed his eyes, wanting to memorize this taste, lock it into his mind forever, so he could take it out and remember it when things were bad. "These are unreal!" he blurted out.

"I hope that's good," Jen said, putting down a glass of milk she'd gotten for him.

Mox, who had taken another bite, nodded enthusiastically. And even though he knew you weren't supposed to make any noise while you were chewing, he couldn't stop a small moan of pleasure coming to his lips. When he had finished the second bite, he looked to Jen. "Am- am I going to get _another_ one?" he asked, "Because I got to the table before anyone else except Sefa?"

Jen nodded. "That's the rule, first three to the table, and you are one of the three. Now the question is who will be the last one." She looked at the clock. "Well, it's time to find out." She walked out of the kitchen, but Mox could see through the doorway that she was standing at the bottom of the stairs. "Lance, Roman! Jon and your father are enjoying their cinnamon rolls!" she called up. "Only one extra left!"

Mox had heard some noises coming from upstairs, squeaks and the sounds of feet moving slowly, as if the folks walking on them were still trying to wake up. Suddenly, the footsteps became frantic and louder and the sounds of dresser drawers being opened quickly and carelessly could be heard.

As Jen returned to the kitchen, going over to the stove, the door into the kitchen opened and Marc came in. He looked at Mox and Sefa, then to his mother. "Did I make it?" he asked, hopefully. "Or is it just the first two who get one, now that Mox is here."

"I made nine," Jen assured him, bringing another roll on a plate and putting it to the left of where Mox was sitting.

Marc sat down and was just about to take a bite, when suddenly there was a flurry of thudding on the stairs and voices getting closer.

"Ha, I'm gonna beat you!" Lance was saying.

"Unfair!" Roman called out, "You and Marc got them last week _and_ the week before!"

"Hey, to the speedy victors go the sticky sweet spoils," Lance called out as he rushed into the kitchen. He looked at the table, saw Mox, Marc, and his father, and deflated. "Aw, crap, Marc beat us!"

"What?" Roman sounded outraged, coming in behind Lance and looking. "That's unfair!"

"It's _not_ unfair," Jen said. "As Lance pointed out, to the speedy victors go the spoils. You and Lance decided to be slug-a-bugs today and you lose."

"Yeah, but as long as he's here, _two_ of us are gonna be out in the cold!" Lance said, pointing to Mox. " _Unfair_."

Mox froze, the cinnamon roll halfway to his mouth. He put it down quickly, feeling his face flush red. "I-I'll just eat this one," he stammered.

While Lance and Roman looked hopeful, Jen shook her head. "Absolutely not. You _earned_ it, it's yours." She looked at Lance. "I think it's good that Mox is here. The competition just got a little harder. Maybe you'll try a little harder to get to the breakfast table. And that's no way to treat Jon.

"Sorry, Mox," Lance said, looking down at his feet. Then he looked at his mother, "But we all do get _one,_ at least, right? I mean, you made nine?"

"Yes, I did," Jen assured him.

* * *

As it turned out, Mox couldn't eat all of the second cinnamon roll. He had saved it for last, thinking it would be like dessert, but the eggs and bacon were _so_ good, the bacon crisp, but not so crisp that it shattered in your mouth, and the scrambled eggs that had cheese and vegetables mixed in with them. And there were even potatoes, cooked in the bacon fat, brown and crispy. By the time he got to the second cinnamon roll, he knew if he ate all of it, he might get sick. He picked up his knife and cut the roll in half. Then, he cut one of the halves in half again. He put the half on the plate that had once held his bacon, eggs, and home fries, then held out the plate with the two quarters to Roman and Lance who sat across from him. "I can't finish it, and I don't want it to be wasted."

Both Roman and Lance started to reach for them, and in unison, they both hesitated then looked at their mother. "It's okay, right?" Lance asked. "Since he offered them?"

Jen nodded, and while Lance and Roman grabbed them from the plate and started eating them, Mox was looking at Jen, who was giving him such a warm smile, that he found himself looking at Sefa thinking she must have been smiling to him, but no, because Sefa was looking at him too, with the same type of smile. As if Mox had done something really wonderful. And while it made Mox feel warm inside, he also felt his face flush and he looked down at his plate. "Don't want to waste something that good," he mumbled.

* * *

When breakfast was over, Roman had to get to his school, so he could get on the bus that would be taking his team to the opponents school. Mox had watched football before, it was one of the things "Richard" approved of. He knew the concept of "Home" and "Away" games, and he was able to figure out that Roman's team was having an "Away" game. "I want to see you play, sometime," he blurted out, before he could stop himself. When everyone looked at him, Even Roman who was heading to the door with Marc, who had agreed to drive him, Mox felt his face turn red, yet again. _Roman doesn't want you at his games,_ he scolded himself. _These people are being nice to you, don't push your luck._

"That would be great," Roman said, and he smiled at Mox when he said it, not just with his mouth either, the smile reached his eyes, which meant it was a _real_ smile. Roman really _did_ think it would be great if Mox went to one of his games. "I know you can't go this week, but we have games every Sunday. Next week is a home game, so maybe you can come with the rest of the family."

"Yeah," Lance agreed, his own smile as real as Roman's. "We all go to support Roman. If you're living in the house, you should go, too."

"Next week we'll all go," Sefa said, nodding to Mox.

* * *

Sefa and Jen had talked the night before, and they both agreed that Sefa needed to have a talk with Mox and let him know what was going on, and what Mox thought about staying at their place, at least until his parent or parents were found, and to set down some ground rules. Sefa was pretty confident that it would be a rather intense conversation, so he and Jen agreed that it should be after they visited the doctor.

But, as they were headed to the doctor's office, Mox sitting in the front seat next to him, nervously drumming the fingers of his right hand on the front of his left shoulder, Sefa realized that there was one thing that needed to be discussed before the doctor's office.

"Mox, are you okay?" he asked, knowing that he wasn't really okay.

"I'm fine," Mox lied, which was exactly what Sefa expected him to do.

His fingers continued to drum along the front of his shoulder, dancing along his collarbone. Sefa had never seen anyone drum their fingers like that before. Usually people drummed their hands on a surface, like a table, or they drummed along an upper thigh. "Mox, I want you to know something. Today, while we're at the doctor, I am not going to leave the room. I will be with you at all times. I have already arranged that. They are even going to allow me in the room when you are having X rays, I just can't be right next to you, I have to be shielded. But the tech will be shielded too, so no one will be invading your space. While you have X rays, you will be alone."

Mox nodded, but his brow furrowed and Sefa realized that Mox might be getting the wrong idea. "Doctor Proctor is a good man."

Mox turned and stared at him. "His name is Doctor _Proctor?_ "

Sefa grinned. "Yep. But you don't have to tease him about it, everyone else who sees him or hears his name has already done that. I've told him that he should have become a proctologist Then he could be Doctor Proctor the Proctologist."

"What's a proctologist?" Mox asked.

"A doctor that takes care of assholes," Sefa replied. "And not people who are assholes, I mean the actual asshole itself."

Mox's eyes went wide, then, as if unable to stop himself, he laughed. "They have doctors that only care about your _asshole?"_

"Yep," Well, that wasn't quite true, and Sefa knew that had Lance been with them, he would have interrupted to tell Mox that a proctologist was a doctor that specialized in things afflicting the anus and rectum, which included more than just the asshole itself. But, Sefa thought the kid didn't need to hear that. He'd had a feeling Mox would find the idea of an asshole doctor funny, and had been glad to find his instincts were correct.

"That job sounds like the shit," Mox said, his voice deadly serious, but a quick glance showed Sefa his eyes were sparkling in amusement.

Sefa burst out laughing. "I should have thought of that one myself, that's a good one."

Mox grinned. "Imagine if you're a proctologist and you're married? Every day you go home and your wife or husband goes 'How was your day,' and you say, 'Oh, I had to deal with a lot of sick assholes. You know, the usual.'"

 _The kid has a sense of humor_ , Sefa thought as he laughed again. The jokes were immature, and probably jokes that had been thought of and told to every proctologist in the world, but considering the kid hadn't even known what a proctologist was less than a minute ago, he was pretty fast with the humor. "Those are good ones," Sefa said. "But, seeing that Dr. Proctor is _not_ a proctologist, we'll just leave those in the car when we get there. But Mox, I have something I need to tell you."

"What?" For a moment, while he had been joking, Mox had stopped shoulder drumming, but the second Sefa got serious, up went his fingers.

"The doctor might have to do things you don't like, touch you in places you don't want him to," Sefa said. He took a deep breath, knowing it was time to be blunt. "But he won't be doing anything for any reason other than to see if you are healthy. He's not going to get some type of pleasure out of this. Do you get that?"

Mox nodded, slowly, as his fingers rapidly tapped, as if his collar bone was a keyboard and he was sending urgent messages in some type of Morse code.

"Again though, I will be there the whole time." Sefa continued. "And doctors are the one exception to the rule. Well, doctors and dentists… let's just broadly say the medical profession."

"What rule?" Mox asked.

Sefa was pulling into the parking lot of the doctor's office, which he was glad of. He stopped in the entrance, hoping no one else was coming along, because he took his eyes completely off the pavement through the front windshield and looked at Mox. "The rule is simple, your body is yours," Sefa said, looking as sincerely and absolute as he could. "I've always told my kids that their body is theirs. I'm sure you've spent most of your life feeling like your body was _not_ yours. Is that true?"

Mox sucked in his breath, but nodded. "Yeah," he said, confirming the nod.

"Well, that guy who you called your father-"

"Richard," Mox interrupted.

"You remember his name?" Sefa asked, momentarily distracted. _If he can remember the person's name, this would be useful._

"No, but Roman says 'the guy you used to call your father' is too long. So, he said we're going to call him Richard." Mox explained, "He said you'd get it."

Sefa smiled. "Yeah, and it works. Richard it is then, at least for now. I'm sure _Richard_ and his friend spent most of their time telling you or showing you that they thought your body was theirs to do whatever they wanted. Am I right?"

Mox nodded again. The drumming on his collarbone got faster, almost to the point where his fingers were a blur.

"Well, they lied," Sefa said. "Your body belongs to _you_. Nobody has the right to touch your body if you don't want them to. And if people do, that's wrong. And if they do, _you're_ not the one who's wrong, _they_ are."

Mox's brows furrowed, but there was a skeptical look in his eyes. "Jen touched me to wrap my ankle. I mean, not that I minded or anything, but she _did_ touch me."

"She warned you too," Sefa reminded him. "And even though she's not a medical professional, she was performing a medical service on you. So she gets a pass on that."

Mox nodded, but his fingers still drummed. Another car was trying to enter the parking lot, so Sefa put the car back in drive and pulled up, taking the closest space to the door he could, without parking in a handicapped spot. "What if someone just wants to shake my hand?" Mox asked.

"If you don't want to, you don't shake it," Sefa said. He had a feeling the kid was testing him, so he added, "You do know though, that living with other people, casual contact _is_ made without permission. We'll be passing in hallways and we'll bump arms, things like that. That's unavoidable. I'm talking about deliberate touching of any kind. Even if it's meant out of affection. If someone goes to hug you and you don't want them to? You either step away, or tell them you don't want their hug or both. Your body is _your_ body and you have the right to control who gets to touch your body and _how_ they touch it. And I want you to remember that. And I will remind you of that, a lot."

Mox bit his lower lip, then nodded. "What about wrestling?" he asked. "When you're a wrestler, there's a _lot_ of touching involved."

"That's true," Sefa said, "but, when you become a wrestler, or a football player, or any type of sports that involve physical contact, you are agreeing that people can touch you and you can touch people. And I'll warn you, if you're thinking of becoming a wrestler, people will be touching you a _lot_. And _you_ will be touching _them_. It's one of the most hands on professions in the world, literally. You wrestle and you will get to know your opponent's body quite quickly and they will get to know yours. You'll spend half your time with your head buried in an armpit, stomach, crotch, or some part of another person, and your hands all over them, and the other half, they'll be doing the same to you. It's not personal, it's the nature of the game. So, if you think you're going to be the type of person who really doesn't like to be touched, and no one could blame you if you were, you might want to think about becoming something else. Have you thought about becoming a wrestler, Mox?"

Mox nodded. "Always," he said firmly. "I mean, I wasn't sure I'd ever get to do _anything_ when I became an adult, because, I was sure I was never going to _be_ an adult. But sometimes Richard told me that when, uh, I got too old to be… what _he_ made me into, that he would take the bomb out of me, give me some money and let me go. Part of me knew he was lying, but part of me wanted to believe. When I believed that I would be freed, I wanted to be a professional wrestler."

"Well then, lucky you found us," Sefa said. "Because, if you haven't picked up on it by now, I am the owner and primary operator of Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy. Marc is the person right under me."

"I sorta figured that out," Mox said, with that faint grin, and Sefa was glad to see his nervous drumming had stopped. "Would you be willing to train me? I mean, I don't have money, but I'll work for you, I'll do anything I can, and instead of money, you can give me lessons."

"We can work that out," Sefa said, pleased. One of the things he and Jen had discussed was having Mox work at the academy. There were always things to be done, the stay over cabins cleaned, dishes needed to be washed at the mess hall. The gym equipment needed to be wiped down and sterilized too. There was plenty of work for Mox if he wanted it. And if he wanted to become a wrestler, he'd probably work all the harder. "But, we'll talk about that after the doctor's appointment. I just have one question though. Do you think wrestling is real? Do you think the guys in the ring really are fighting?"

Mox shook his head. "I did at first and then my- uh, Richard told me it was bullshit. That was his exact word, bullshit. I was disappointed at first, then I realized that there was a part of me that knew already. You can't throw people around or twist them around or do half the stuff it looks like they're doing, and not have them end up injured. Like, I need crutches for this sprain, and all I did was dive into a ditch. The stuff they do on wrestling? If the other person didn't expect it and know how to roll with it, they could end up with a broken neck. Wrestlers would be dying all the time, right in the ring or right after they left the ring. But they don't die. In fact, they are right back at it, sometimes in the same show, but at least the next night. And, if you look closely, you can see stuff. Like when they get someone up on their shoulders and fall back with them, uh, I guess it's a suplex or a Samoan drop, if the person doing the drop is Samoan. But I noticed that when they go to do it, often the person who is going to be dropped, jumps as they're being placed on the shoulders of the guy who's going to drop them, giving them help to get on their shoulders. _Nobody_ would do that if they were fighting for real."

Sefa nodded. "You figured it out. I just wanted to make sure you knew." He decided this wasn't the time to tell him there was a little bit of difference between a belly-to-back suplex and a Samoan drop, but a lot of people didn't realize that and right now it wasn't important.

Mox nodded then bit his lip. "I don't think I'd like it as much if they really were hurting and killing each other. I mean, I know accidents happen, sometimes wrestlers disappear and the announcers say that they suffered an injury. But those are _accidents._ The announcers pretend they aren't, but again, if they were really doing that stuff to hurt each other, there would be a whole lot of wrestlers being injured."

Sefa nodded. "You've got it, Mox. And you still want to be a wrestler?"

Mox nodded and bit his lower lip. Sefa was about to take the key out of the ignition and open to door, figuring the discussion was over, when Mox blurted out, "I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want to beat anyone up, but I _really_ like the idea of looking like I can."

* * *

Mox realized Sefa was right, if you could get over that his name was goofy, Dr. Proctor was a decent enough guy. His assistant, seemed like a nice enough guy too, and told Mox he could call him by his first name, Carl. Sefa kept his word too, and was with him, every step in the way.

They worked on his ankle first, getting X rays taken and while they were waiting for the X rays to develop, the doctor did a physical exam on the ankle. He warned Mox that it would hurt and apologized in advance. And, it _did_ hurt. Not as bad as some things that had happened to him, but still, the pain was sharp and even though he didn't want to seem weak, he couldn't help but wince.

Sefa put his hand on Mox's shoulder and for a moment, Mox was tempted to see if Sefa had been serious about the "My body" rule, but he realized that he _liked_ having that hand on his shoulder. It didn't stop the pain, but it made him feel like there was somebody besides him that didn't want to see Mox in pain, even if the pain was necessary.

His ankle wasn't broken, but it was sprained and not the most mild sprain, either. It wasn't a Grade three sprain, the worst there was, but it was a type two, the second worst. He was told that it could take up to twelve weeks until it was fully healed. Dr. Proctor said that he would write a prescription for a mild painkiller and a muscle relaxant, but he expected to see Mox in two weeks, to make sure it was healing properly. Mox wasn't impressed with that part, but he didn't disagree. He didn't want this stupid ankle messing up his life and keeping him from working or training at the academy. If it meant he had to come back here and deal with the pain, he'd do it. They also gave him a strange plastic thing to keep his ankle in the right position while it healed. At first, Mox had been unsure, but then Carl put it on and wrapped it to stay with a stretchy bandage and he did find it made the ankle feel better. He learned that for these two weeks, he should use the RICE method, and after that, they would talk about getting him started on exercises he could do so the muscles and tendons wouldn't atrophy.

Mox had no clue what was meant by the RICE method and wondered if it involved eating rice. If so, he hoped it was the good rice that Richard and Sam sometimes brought home, the stuff that was called Fried Rice with bits of meat and other stuff in it, not the white rice that tasted like nothing or close to nothing. He thought about asking, but he saw Sefa nodding, so he said nothing. Later, Sefa would tell him that RICE stood for Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation.

After the ankle though, he was scared the real and awful exam and testing would begin, but it wasn't nearly as bad as he thought it would be. Carl drew blood from him, and told him some would have to be sent out for tests, and some tests could be done here. Sefa looked worried that blood had to leave the lab, but Carl assured him that his blood was assigned a number, so the lab wouldn't know whose blood it really was.

They didn't make Mox strip down to nothing, either. Dr. Proctor did say more than once that he wanted to do a full physical on him, but that they could wait on that until things were "straightened out." Mox was sure the "full physical" was going to be a lot worse, but even Sefa said, "One step at a time, Doctor." And the doctor agreed.

The doctor did feel around Mox's neck, which Mox didn't like at all, because he half expected those light and gentle fingers to suddenly tighten and begin choking him, but that didn't happen. He also made Mox open his mouth. "You really need to see a dentist," he remarked. "But, to be honest, your teeth aren't as bad as I thought they would be. I was worried you'd have missing, broken, or rotted teeth."

 _Of course not,_ Mox thought. _Rotting and broken teeth are ugly and missing teeth stop being cute by age seven or so. I wasn't allowed to be ugly, at least not my face._ An unwilling memory came over him, of someone slapping him across the face, really hard. Not his father, not Sam, someone they brought over though. His father had seen the guy slap him, and had interfered immediately, grabbing the guy's arm, "I said nothing near the face and nothing that could cause permanent damage!" He'd really yelled at the guy too, got right in his face and must have scared him, because for the rest of the time he was messing with "Timmy" he didn't hit him, not just the face, but didn't hit him _anywhere._

Sefa assured the doctor that as soon as they could, they would get him to a dentist. After that, the doctor put one of those round things with the tubes that fit in the doctor's ears, a stethoscope, Mox thought it was called, on his chest and back. He listened and must have liked what he heard, because he nodded. After that, the doctor left the room, and Mox got to change back into his clothes, which he was glad for, because the hospital gown he had been wearing was awful. He was actually wearing two of them, one tied in the back and then one tied in the front. Sefa had seen him do that, and hadn't said a word, even though Carl had told him to put on _a_ hospital gown, not two of them.

They ended up waiting for a while, but then Carl came in with some papers and a bag of little boxes. "I got what I could in samples," he explained as he handed everything to Sefa. "I wish it could have been more, but some of these scripts are for things we don't keep samples of in the office, like painkillers." Mox felt a bit nervous staring at the papers. There seemed like a lot of them, and Mox was sure they would cost money. Sefa didn't seem worried, he put the papers in his pockets and put enough of the boxes in his pockets too, so he could hold the rest in his hands. Carl told them they needed to stop and make another appointment for two weeks with the receptionist and told them after that, they were free to go. As Sefa was waiting to make the appointment, he looked at Mox. "Why don't you go outside?"

Mox nodded gratefully. Yeah, it hadn't been that bad, but he just wanted to get out of here. There were other people in the waiting room, a man with a woman and a couple little boys, one who looked red and feverish. A woman sniffling and wiping at her nose with a tissue, an older woman with a teenage girl. The girl was wearing very tiny shorts and a very tight shirt. She looked at Mox, and suddenly thrust out her chest and tossed her hair, which was the color of the non-fat part of bacon, over her shoulders. She started sneaking glances at him and that made Mox nervous. Getting out of here seemed like a really good idea, and he made his way out the automatic doors. Even though it was hot and muggy out here and the inside had been cool and dry, Mox found he was breathing better out here.

When Sefa came out, Mox was standing by the car, trying to look casual and for the first time since before he ran away, wishing he had a cigarette. Mox didn't smoke much, unlike Sam, who always had a cigarette hanging from his skinny lips, but sometimes someone gave him one, Sam most often. His fa- _Richard_ had warned him that he didn't want to become an addict, but he had figured one every so often wasn't going to make him an addict. Now he wondered, just a bit, because he would have like one now. But, he had that feeling that Sefa and Jen would not like that at all. _They won't even let you drink coffee, imagine what they'll do if you ask for a pack of Marlboro reds?_

"Are you all right?" Sefa asked as he hit the remote to unlock the car doors.

Mox shrugged. "Yeah, it wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. Are you going to make me go to the dentist?"

"At some point, yes I am," Sefa said. "We just need to figure out a few things, first."

"What kind of things?"

"Things you don't have to worry about," Sefa said as he headed over so he could take the crutches once Mox was in the car and put them in the back seat. "Your job is to focus on getting well. It's our job to worry about getting the tools to help you get well."

"I don't feel all that bad," Mox said as he maneuvered himself into the passenger seat. "Except for the stupid ankle, and that thing they put on it helps a lot."

"Mox, I think you haven't felt really healthy in such a long time, that you've forgotten what it feels like." Sefa said, as he stowed the crutches in the back seat.

Mox wasn't quite sure what Sefa meant by that remark. Certainly, he should know if he felt good or not. But, he decided that he should just let that one go. He buckled his seat belt, just like Sefa had made him do when they got into the car. When he did that, he saw Sefa smile and give a slight nod. Mox felt oddly pleased that Sefa was pleased at what he'd done. _Mox,_ he told himself, _You're going soft._

He realized with a start, that a week ago, the idea of going soft would have worried him, upset him. But now, he really didn't care.

* * *

 **Authors Notes:** **Thank you to everyone who is reading this story. Double thanks to everyone who follows or favored it. Triple thanks to everyone who left a review, with again, the exception of the Wanker Who Will Not Be Named.**

 **Thank you for reading this.**

 **Peace Out**

 **Willow.**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Mox thought they would go right back to the Reign's house after the doctor's but instead they went a restaurant. Sefa called it a diner, but a diner was a type of restaurant. Mox knew what restaurants were, he'd seen them in movies, and Richard often got food from restaurants for them to eat. Sometimes when they traveled, they would stop, and Richard and Sam would go inside of a restaurant to eat. Sometimes they would bring him food too. When he was younger and they had to tie him up, Richard would feed him bits of the food at a time, but when it got to the point where they knew Mox wasn't going to fight the box so they stopped tying him up, they would just lock the food in the box with him. But, while he knew what restaurants were, he'd never actually been inside of one, at least not all the time he was living with Richard. He did have vague memories of being in a place with strange, but kind of cool furniture, tables with round seats bolted to them. He suspected it was a McDonald's, because he usually remembered this when Richard brought him McDonald's food.

This diner did not look anything like his memory restaurant. This place had metal on the walls, and instead of chairs, there were things like couches to sit on. The only thing that reminded Mox of his memory, was that there was this ledge with round chairs you could sit on and eat. Mox looked around, taking it all in. The ledges had dishes raised on platforms with plastic things over the plates and on the plates were pies and cakes. There were women wandering around, all wearing the same outfits, which Mox thought was weird, then he remembered from movies, that they were the people who you told you wanted to eat. Waitress? He was pretty sure that's what they were called.

One of these identically dressed women (it was a blue dress with some white in the front) asked them how many. Mox was going to ask her how many of what, but Sefa held up two fingers. She nodded and grabbed a couple of big, shiny paper like things, and lead them to one of the tables that had a couch on either side of it. Sefa helped Mox slide in, and then hung his crutches on a hook, that was on this tall piece of wood that was on the side of the couch, between his couch and a couch that was for the table behind him.

Right after they sat down, a different woman in one of the blue and white dressed came over and asked them what they wanted to drink. Sefa ordered coffee and when he did, Mox became even more aware of the delicious smell of coffee in the air. He looked at Sefa. "Please can I have coffee? _Please?_ I know it's against the rules, but I _really_ want some."

Sefa hesitated, then nodded, first to him, then to the waitress. "Okay, I'm going to bend the rules this time, but don't you dare tell Jen. This will be our little secret." Mox nodded, then Sefa opened up the big shiny paper like thing, that opened like a book, but didn't seem to have pages in it. Mox did too and saw it was all full of pictures of food with words. He started reading the words, most he had to sound out in his head, but he figured out enough to see these were descriptions of food and the prices.

Their waitress came back and brought two mugs of coffee, a bowl of plastic containers that Mox knew were full of cream, he'd seen these before and a tall pitcher that looked as if it were made of copper, but was really made of plastic. Sefa had already folded up his book-with-no-pages. The waitress asked them if they were ready to order. Mox was still looking at his book and realized it would take him forever to sound it all out. He looked over at Sefa, biting his lip.

Sefa sensed his discomfort and smiled. "Do you trust me, Mox?"

Mox nodded. He wasn't sure what he was trusting Sefa about, but he had determined that he did trust Sefa, he trusted the Reigns in general.

Sefa looked at the waitress. "We'll both have chili cheeseburgers with chili cheese fries, extra cheese. Make mine the five alarm stuff, make his mild. And before the meal, bring both of us a house salad with ranch dressing." When the waitress nodded and left, Sefa dropped a wink to Mox. "Now we can say we had a salad, which will make Jen happy."

Mox nodded. He knew what chili cheeseburgers were, and chili cheese fries, but the salad confused him. "What's a salad?"

"Some type of leafy vegetable, served raw, usually with other raw vegetables in it too," Sefa said, as if it was common for someone Mox's age to not know what a salad was. "You can order special salads that have meat on them, but we're just getting regular salads. And, because leafy vegetables can be boring to eat, they give you a sauce to put on them. It's called salad dressing."

Mox nodded. While Sefa had explained a salad to him, Mox had been adding cream and sugar to his coffee. Now he raised his mug to his lips and took a drink. "I missed this," he confessed.

"Well, enjoy it, because it's going to be the last coffee you have for awhile," Sefa said. "The rule is that you can drink coffee when you're sixteen, and you've seen Roman drinking it quite a bit, lately, but Jen doesn't like him to drink it all the time. So, this is a good time to practice _not_ having it, so you won't go overboard when you are allowed."

"I was never told not to drink coffee," Mox confessed. "In fact, sometimes it was the only thing I got for breakfast, if I even got breakfast. Coffee with sugar and milk or cream if we had it. If we didn't have milk or cream I would add a lot more sugar. The last couple years though, I had to drink it black. But it was one of the few things I could drink on my non eating days."

"Non eating days?"

Mox nodded. "I was only fed every other day," he explained. "It was to keep me looking younger than my age and to hopefully keep me from growing too tall."

Sefa winced. "Mox, you do understand that Richard was bad, right? That pretty much everything he taught you was wrong? Even if you liked it, that doesn't mean it was right. Like the coffee. You _like_ coffee, but that doesn't mean it was good of him to let you drink it at such an early age."

Mox looked at him, over his cup of coffee and for a moment, he knew his eyes were narrowing. There was that whole "like" thing again. He remembered his thoughts from earlier in the day and before he could stop himself he found himself blurting out, "If something feels good, that doesn't mean you _like_ it. It doesn't mean you _want_ it, either. Especially if nobody asked you to do it, but _made_ you. I _do_ like coffee. I did _not_ like most of the stuff that happened to me."

Sefa's eyes widened and for what seemed like a long time, said nothing. When he did begin to speak, it was slow and deliberate. "You're right," he said. "Just because something feels good, doesn't mean you liked that it was happening to you, or _wanted_ it to happen to you. No matter what, being forced is being forced and being forced is wrong." He nodded as he spoke, as if to make his words hold more weight. "I'm glad you figured that out, Mox. That's a good thing to know."

"I don't care if doctors think I liked it, because their tests show it felt good, they're _wrong."_ Mox put down his cup without taking a sip, staring at Sefa as defiantly as he could. "Even if they tell you I liked it, they're wrong, I _didn't."_

Now Sefa really looked puzzled. "Tests that show me how much you liked something?"

"Richard said doctors did tests and they could tell them everything that I'd done and if I liked it or not. That's why Sam had to set my bones and give me stitches and stuff. Because we couldn't go to the doctor's because if we did, the doctors would do tests that could tell them all the things I had done, and that I'd liked some of them. Richard said I _liked_ it. But I _didn't._ " He drew in a deep breath, knowing the next part was going to be hard, but he had momentum behind him, and he was going to finish this train of thought. " _Sometimes_ it felt good, most of the times it didn't, but I never _liked_ it. But I don't know if doctor tests know the difference between liking something and that something felt good. I think they might be interchangeable."

Now Sefa shook his head. "Mox, doctor's can check your body out. And, if things you've done have altered your body in any way, injured it, they can tell that, if they check that far. But there are no tests that tell them if you liked something or even if it felt good. The only way anyone can know if you like something, or if it felt good is if you _tell_ them it did." He sighed and shook his head again. "Mox, that was another lie. It seems that all Richard ever did to you was lie."

"I'm starting to figure that out." His tone was a dry as the desert.

Sefa now nodded. "Yeah." Then he raised his mug to his lips, taking a drink of coffee, then put it down and looked Mox straight in the eyes. "Look, I can pretty much guarantee that anything he told you that made you feel in any way responsible for what they were doing to you, that you shared any part of the blame or guilt, it was a lie. You were a child when they took you, a _young_ child. They spent all those years breaking you down and trying to make you into someone else. Someone who would do what they told you without question. They would have done anything they could to make you complacent. Even try to make you think that you were in some ways, a willing participant. You weren't though. Legally, you couldn't be, because you're a child and the law is that children don't have the mental capacity to make certain decision, especially about people doing things with their bodies, sexual things. So, even if you asked them to do the things they were doing to y-"

"I _never_ asked them!" Mox protested, his voice raising. A few other people sitting in the restaurant looked at them. And of course, the waitress picked that moment to bring over the salads. She put them down and said nothing, just walked away.

"I didn't say you did," Sefa said softly, after the waitress had left. The people looking at them soon realized the excitement was over and went back to their food and conversations. "But even _if_ you did, you still aren't at all responsible. You were too young to make those choices for yourself. So, let's strike a deal, Mox. Any time you have a question about something from your past, something someone told you that makes you feel bad about yourself? Makes you feel that you were in any way a willing participant? You ask Jen and I about it. Marc too, if Jen and I are around. You can probably even talk to Roman about it, if you didn't go into grave details. But just _don't_ discuss it with Lance."

Mox nodded, and picked up his own coffee cup and drank from it. _So, doctor's can't tell if I liked something or not_ , he thought, _it figures. I must sound like an idiot every time I talk_. Then, as his mind was going over Sefa's words, he realized something and put his cup down again. "Do you _really_ think I'm going to tell _Lance_ anything about what happened to me? I mean, at least the bad stuff?"

"I don't know," Sefa said. There was a tiny container of white stuff resting on top of the green stuff in the bowl, and he poured it all over the raw, green stuff. "I'd like to think you won't of your own free will. But I also want to tell you that even if you want to, please don't. Jen and I would also prefer you didn't tell Roman too much either, but he's already figured out a lot more. He just doesn't need the complete details. But Lance? Someday he's going to figure it out, and being Lance it will likely be a whole lot sooner than later, but for now, he's not ready to know the grisly details. He knows you had a horrible life, he knows you were badly treated. He might even have a vague idea that sexual abuse has been involved, but he doesn't need details." He used his fork to spear up some of the vegetables and put them in his mouth.

"I'm not going to tell him," Mox said, pouring the stuff in the small container on his salad, trying to mimic Sefa as closely as possible. "Do you think I'm _that_ much of an asshole? I'm not. And even if I _was_ that much of an asshole, do you think I'd risk what all of you would do to me if I told him things I've done? All of you would gang up and probably _kill_ me. I don't know what Lance's story is, but it's pretty clear everyone in your family look at Lance as some type of wonder child. Is it because he's the youngest?" He also ate a bite of his salad, and while the dressing was pretty good, he wasn't sure at all about the leafy stuff. The tomatoes though, didn't taste bad, especially with the dressing on them.

Sefa shrugged. "In part because he's the youngest. In part because he's extremely smart, smart enough to figure things out that he probably shouldn't. But the biggest reason is because he was a really sick kid. We almost lost him. He had AML, which stands for Acute Myeloid Leukemia. It was discovered when he was five. We thought he'd beaten it once, but it wasn't even three months before it was back. He wasn't declared NED until last year. And it will be a little over four years before we can call him a survivor."

Mox didn't understand a lot of the actual words Sefa was saying, but he got the gist of them. Lance had gotten very sick, almost died, but then got better, but this AML could come back any time in the next five years.

"So, yeah, we all protect him," Sefa continued. "Roman _really_ feels responsible for him, because Roman ended up being the only suitable donor who could give him a bone marrow transplant. Lance was NED, but research showed that blood marrow transplants done to AML patients, particularly children, greatly increases their chances of _staying_ in remission."

Again, a lot of the words were unfamiliar to Mox, but he could pick up on the key points. Roman did something that helped Lance's chances. "Well, I didn't know any of this until now," he said. "And I haven't told him _anything_ about my life. In fact, he's been the one telling me stuff _he_ suspects about my life, like the whole bad foster parents thing. I haven't said anything. And I won't. But what if he asks me something, something you don't want him knowing about? What if he says, 'did you ever do _this?_ ' and I did do it?"

Sefa considered it. "If he asks you something directly about what happened to you, and it's something you didn't like happening to you, or something you wouldn't want to see to happen to him, then you tell him you can't answer that until he talks to Jen or I. And I'll warn you, he will try to dig at the edges and find things out, so you will have to stand firm. And let one of us know as soon as possible what he asked, so we can be prepared."

Mox nodded. He had a funny feeling Lance might not like it, but he could deal with that.

"And since you brought this up, I'm going to call that a rule. Right up there with 'your body is yours.' We'll just call it the Lance rule."

Sefa looked as if he was going to continue, but the waitress arrived with their burgers and fries, so he stopped while their plates were delivered. They were asked if they needed anything else right now, and both of them shook their heads. "We might need more coffee in a bit, but not right now," Sefa said. Mox had finished his salad while they had talked, but Sefa hadn't. Sefa pushed his salad aside as if he'd had enough of this raw vegetable thing, even with the ranch sauce.

The food smelled wonderful and Mox ate one of the fries, feeling his eyes half close in contentment. The burger was messy, dripping with cheese and chili, but there was a container of napkins at the end of the table, and he leaned over the plate as much as he could to make sure that the excess chili and cheese would fall on the fries. He wasn't going to waste a bite of this if he could.

Sefa busied himself with his burger for a bit too, but continued with what they were talking about before the burgers arrived. "Mox, Jen and I want to take care of you."

"You are," Mox said. Truth be told, he'd been better taken care of in these last two days than he had since the day he was taken.

"Well, yes, but we'd like to _keep_ doing it." Sefa said. "You're too young to be on your own, and in some ways you're naive. In some things you're not, but in life skills, I'd say you've got some things to learn. And, we think you should stay with us while you learn them. Also, since you want to be a wrestler, well, I'd say fate had a hand in bringing you to us."

Mox had just taken a big mouthful of his burger, but he nodded as he chewed. The idea of living at a wrestling school made him wonder if he was going to wake up and find himself chained in a basement, find out that Sefa, Jen, Roman, Lance, Marc, and everything that had been happening to him was a hallucination he was having. How could he, the kid who seemed to have absolutely nothing going for him in the matter of luck, stumble across a family who wanted to take him in, who just happened to have a _wrestling school?_

"You know how to read, but I don't think you know much more than that," Sefa continued. "Did the guys you lived with, Richard or Sam ever teach you things? Home school you?"

Mox shook his head. He wasn't quite sure what a home school was, but he knew the last time he'd been in school was the day he was taken. He swallowed the bite of burger. "Richard showed me letters and stuff sometimes. I think because he knew I knew all the letters to my name, and he wanted to give me _all_ the letters, hoping I would forget which letters were mine. He made sure I could spell the name _he_ gave me. So, I kind of learned to read myself. But I didn't have much to read. I had a few books, but they were for really young kids. I had tapes with covers on them, and I would read the covers, but that was about it. Oh yeah, sometimes there are words on TV. Like when you watch wrestling, they'll put up the name of the wrestler on the screen and I'd read that, too. I know a little bit about numbers too. But that's about it." _And I know a whole lot more about what I shouldn_ _'t._

Sefa nodded, looking a little grim. "We figure you probably don't want to go to school. They would have to put you in special classes to catch you up and that might be embarrassing. But, we do know a lot about homeschooling because we had to do that with Lance when he was sick. There is a website we belong to, that is set up for home schooling. Jen and I agree that what we should probably do is help you get your GED. You're almost sixteen. You can't take the GED test until you're eighteen, but that gives you a couple years to learn what you need to know. A GED is just as good as a High School diploma in most cases. And, some colleges will even let you attend if you have one. Especially Junior colleges. If you decide you want to go to college, Jen and I will do what we can to get you into one. You might have to go to a two year college first, but if you do well there, you can go on to a proper four year one."

Mox knew what a college was, it was school for kids who were older. Richard had liked movies about college, especially if they showed a lot of sex, alcohol, and drugs. But Mox did understand that the sex and the booze and the drugs weren't the real point of college, that you were supposed to use college to learn stuff. "I don't think I want to go to college," he said. "I don't really care about this GED thing, but I'm betting that's something you're not going to let me get out of."

"And you are absolutely right," Sefa said. "That's another rule. You have to at least get a GED. I mean, we'd love it if you wanted to go to high school, but we understand that might be uncomfortable for you."

"Well, that's three so far, any more?" They didn't seem like they were that bad. Okay, the GED one had him worried, but the other stuff, he was fine with. Especially the whole part about his body being his own.

Sefa had been about to take another bite of his burger, but he put it back on the plate instead. "I don't want you to get offended by this one, because I'm pretty sure this is something you wouldn't do, but I have to make sure. Just like I told you that your body is your own, everyone else's is too. Meaning you aren't allowed to touch anyone without _their_ permission. Just like you didn't like things being done to you without your consent, you have to respect that other people don't like that either. Is this going to be a problem for you?"

Mox stared at him in disbelief before finally managing to shake his head and say, "No way. I _did_ hate being forced to do stuff. I'd-I'd," he paused trying to find the right thing to say that would prove to Sefa how much the very idea of doing to someone else what had been done to him would repulse him. "I'd rather cut it all off," he finally blurted out. "With a rusty knife."

Sefa's eyes widened, but he nodded. "I don't want you to do anything that drastic. And as I said, I had a feeling this wouldn't be a problem, but I just want to make sure you understand this. You can't do to anyone else what was done to you, unless you and that person both agree that's what you both want."

"That won't be a problem," Mox said. "Because to be honest, I don't think I will ever want to have sex again. _Never."_

"You might change your mind later," Sefa said thoughtfully. "Or, maybe you won't. It's okay though. There's no rule that says you have to have sex. There are people in this world who are, what they call Asexual. They just have no desire to have sex. And there is nothing wrong with that. But, there is also nothing wrong if you find that someday you realize you aren't Asexual. You might meet someone that you really like, and they like you, and you both realize that you more than like each other, you love each other enough that you want to express that love in a physical way."

Mox grimaced, clearly not sure about this whole love = sex thing, it sounded like bullshit. Sex wasn't love, sex was desperate and greedy, and turned people into animals that only cared about themselves. That wasn't love. But he nodded. "Any other rules?" he asked, eager to get off the subject of sex.

"You help around the house when it's needed," Sefa said. "Right now, you're excused from most of it because of your ankle. But when you're better, you'll have your responsibilities. We expect you to do your chores to the best of your ability and if you don't know how to do something, you ask someone and they'll show you. I will have you work at the camp, and you will be trained to wrestle, if you show you have the talent and desire, which I think you do. But, the priorities go like this, education first, then household chores, then wrestling. Don't lie to Jen and I. I mean, try not to lie to anyone, but _especially_ Jen and I. If we ask you if you did something or didn't do something, you be honest. Even if you know you should or shouldn't have done it, be honest. It might be bad that you did or didn't do something, but if you lie about it, it will be even worse. You do have the right to refuse to answer, as long as you're being asked something about your past, before you joined the family. Especially if anyone but Jen and I ask it. And if Jen and I do ask you something about your past that makes you uncomfortable, we will explain why we are asking. We will do our best not to ask you questions that may make you feel humiliated or ashamed, and if we have to ask you those types of questions, we will do our best to let you know why we have to ask them. Those are the major rules. There are other rules that are minor that you'll learn as you go along, like hang your towels on the towel rack when you're done drying off, don't leave them on the floor, Jen will leave your clean laundry on your bed, you are expected to put it away, things like that. Do you think you can live with this?"

Mox nodded. They didn't seem like bad rules and he thought he could live with them. At least they seemed to be consistent rules, not rules that would change on a whim, as rules Richard claimed to establish would. "What are _your_ rules?" Mox blurted out.

Sefa looked at him, raising one brow. "Whose rules? Mine and Jen?"

Mox nodded. "I mean, I get that you guys don't need to have the same rules. Nobody has to make it a rule for you that you have to pick up your towels, because you're adults and you just know that you have to do that stuff. But what rules do you have that _I_ can count on with you?" He swallowed, knowing that asking this might be pushing things. But, again, he'd seen rules change around him too much. Richard would say one thing, or promise something one minute and change it the next.

Sefa's brow furrowed. "Well, I guess our rules is that we have to make sure you have proper shelter, clothing and food. Those are laws, actually, for any children we have, and it includes children we are taking responsibility for as well. But, as you know, just because something is a law, doesn't mean that people always follow it. But, even if it wasn't a law, Jen and I will always do our best to make sure your needs are met, just as we did and in some ways still do Marc, and do for Roman, and Lance. We also promise not to punish you physically. There are people that believe in spanking, or hitting as a punishment, but Jen and I don't. If you break rules, we might ground you, we might give you extra chores. We will punish you, because you need to learn, but we won't do it by hurting or humiliating you. The punishment will be something suited to the rule broken and your age."

"My age?" Mox tipped his head to one side.

Sefa nodded. "When our boys were young, from about ages two to five, we sometimes punished them by making them sit in the corner. We had a stool in the corner. If the crime was really bad, they had to face the corner. For lesser crimes, they could face the room, but they couldn't leave the corner for the amount of time we said. If they did, the time started over again. We put the kitchen timer where they could see it. But, when Marc and Roman each turned five and when Lance was four, we decided that was not a good punishment anymore. If we really felt they needed some time to reflect, they were told to go to their rooms. But usually when the boys got older, we could make punishments fit the crimes. Like if a chore wasn't done properly, they would have to redo the chore they did wrong, and do some extra chores. When Roman and Marc got poor grades, or grades we didn't feel showed they were trying their best, they had to study harder. In the case of Marc, he had troubles with math, so we hired a tutor for him. We'll do the same for you, if necessary, to help you with your GED studies."

Mox nodded. "And I can't drink coffee, that's one of the minor rules," he said, as he took a sip of the forbidden beverage. "Unless, you decide we can break the rules again some time when Jen isn't around."

"You're catching on," Sefa said, grinning. "Most rules we stick together on, Jen and I, but sometimes I'll bend them a bit."

"How else do you _bend_ them?" Mox was curious. This didn't seem as much like bending as outright breaking.

Sefa thought a bit, then said, "Jen really doesn't want Lance eating junk food. I mean, she doesn't want _any_ of us eating junk food, she thinks it's bad and she's probably right. But she's especially worried about Lance. A lot of people, not medical people, but other people, tried to convince her that junk food could have caused AML, or that making sure he never got junk food again would keep him from ever getting AML again, so on and so forth. So, she's strict about Lance. But, sometimes… let's say if she decides to skip one of Roman's games, which doesn't happen very often, I _might_ buy him some hot dogs and fries. And the worst hot dogs in the world are the ones they sell at a High School football game."

"Do _you_ believe junk food is bad?" Mox had no clue why he cared, but he did.

Sefa shrugged. "I agree with Jen that whole food is probably better than processed foods. For example, eating an apple is probably better for you than eating store bought applesauce. Eating turkey that was carved right off the bird is better for you than eating turkey cold cuts. But, I also believe that sometimes, you have to be able to eat something bad for you." He pointed to what was left of his lunch, which was a few fries with chili. "Like this. Nobody is going to say this was a healthy meal, and I wouldn't want you to eat it all the time, but from time to time? I think it's fine."

Mox nodded as he ate the last bite of his burger, chewing and swallowing. It was really good, but if he'd been offered a choice between this, or any of the meals Jen had made for him, he would have picked Jen's food.

When their plates were empty, the waitress came and gathered them up. "Any dessert for you?" she asked. "We've got apple pie, made fresh this morning."

Sefa looked at Mox. "Do you want a slice of apple pie?"

Mox had eaten apple pie before. Sometimes he was brought an apple pie from McDonald's. And a couple times he'd eaten apple pie from those companies like Tasty Cakes or Little Debbie's. He didn't like apple pie as much as he liked the cookie he'd eaten last night, the one Jen had made, but he _did_ like it. He nodded.

"Do you trust me?" Sefa asked, grinning.

Mox nodded again. Sefa looked at the waitress. "We'll each have a piece of apple pie. Can we get it heated, with some of that really sharp cheddar cheese you have, grated on top?"

The waitress nodded. "We can do that for you. Should I refill your coffee, too?"

Sefa nodded in return. When the waitress walked off, he looked at Mox. "Most folks I know like ice cream on their apple pie. But I think cheese is better. Let's see what you think."

Mox had never had apple pie with ice cream before, so he couldn't make the comparison, but by the time they were leaving, he knew he'd be a fan of apple pie and cheese forever. He wondered if Jen made apple pie, and if it would taste better than what he'd just had. He thought that it might be difficult, but it probably would.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** **Now, here's where the reasons why I was dumbstruck with Joe's announcement are discovered. Not only did I give Lance the same cancer Roman's actor has, but then I made Roman the one that was able to (at least for now) secure Lance's remission and increase his odds of being a survivor.**

 **Special thanks to all of you who let me know what you thought of longer/vs. shorter chapters. The "keep it as it is" crowd seems to have won out and I'm glad about that. I'd feel strange trying to break apart the chapters.**

 **Thank you to all of you who are reading this. Thank you to all of you who favored or followed it. And extreme thanks to those who felt inspired enough by the story to give me a review. It means a whole lot to me. And I hope you'll continue to want to read the story.**

 **Peace Out**

 **Willow**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

The Reigns had built up a lot of good will in the small town they lived just outside of, and over the next few weeks, they called on all of that goodwill and the promise of more to help Jon Moxley become a person, instead of a non entity.

Both Jen and Sefa were worried about, Mox's whole background being discovered. It was likely, no it was a _guarantee_ that if it was found out, the FBI would want to talk to him. He'd been kidnapped and kept in horrible conditions, a victim of a child slavery ring that went much further than just the two men who had kidnapped him. Roman had told them that Mox had mentioned that he had met other kids before, and Jen and Sefa were sure those kids were in the same boat Jon had been in.

Roman also told them that Jon had, in so many words, told him that all those kids he met, and more he hadn't, were most likely dead. There was no way people like Sam and "Richard" would let Mox talk to kids in a normal situation, home, family, those types of things. There was too much of a risk that the imprisoned children would talk about what was happening to them, and the ones living normal lives would tell them it was wrong, or even worse, tell their _parents_ what was happening. All the kids he'd met must have been victims of the same type of abuse.

The authorities would want Jon's help to bring this ring down. And in her heart, Jen knew that Jon _should_ help, but she also knew that emotionally, Jon was fragile. Being questioned by the FBI was likely to shatter him. They would be focused on getting him to give them as much information, and they were likely to forget he was just a kid. Not even sixteen years old, and most of those years living primarily in the dark, having unspeakable things done to him. Being questioned would frighten him, and likely make him shut down mentally. Or, he would feel like a prisoner again and try to escape. And to have him disappear wouldn't help him at all.

He wasn't a cute little boy anymore, a constant reminder that he was a victim, he was a too skinny, too pale, teenager, full in the awkward stage, arms and legs looking a little too long for the rest of him, and a resting expression that looked more like a scowl than anything else. His nostrils flared when he was nervous, and if you didn't know him, you were likely to think he was hostile. And he _was_ hostile, with good reason, but the FBI might see him instead as a creepy sort-of boy, who might actually have been a perpetrator of what was done, rather than a victim of it. She, Sefa, and even Marc, who was an adult, and thus allowed to have a say in things that Roman and Lance didn't, agreed it was too much of a risk.

"I think the day will come where he'll want to help find these people," Marc said, in the slow, deliberate way he spoke when he was thinking carefully about what to say. "But that day isn't now. He's shaky. On the one hand, he knows a lot of things, but they aren't good things. On the other hand, he knows less about how the world works in general, than a seven year old. Half his knowledge of how the world works, came from watching things he was given permission to watch, and from what he's told _me_ , most of this stuff is stuff you wouldn't let Lance watch. Things that would give him a bad impression of life in general. He needs to get a better grasp on the world and himself before he will realize others need to be saved, too. But when the day comes? If he's under age, one of you needs to be there all the time. If he's considered an adult? Then we need to get him a lawyer or someone who will watch out and make sure whoever questions him understands he was a victim, not a perpetrator."

It did make Jen pause when she thought that this… "Richard" (as everyone in the house, including Jon himself called him) might have taken another child. In fact, the thought if it made her feel slightly ill, and she found herself praying every night that Jon's escape from them had put the fear of God into them, so they were lying low and staying away from children.

The big fly in the ointment was medical insurance. They couldn't exactly put him on the family's insurance, not unless they legally adopted him. They couldn't just adopt him, unless he was a ward of the state, or a legal parent or guardian gave over guardianship to them, which probably meant they would still have to adopt him. So, they had to get him some type of Medicaid. But in order to do that, he had to be a real person with a birth certificate and a social security number. And that was the problem, there was no birth certificate for this kid, at least not under the name of Jon Moxley. Somewhere out there, there was a birth certificate and probably even a social security number for him, but they wouldn't be under the name of Jon Moxley. They would be under a name he didn't remember.

Aaron, the Sheriff, was doing what he could to check missing child databases, but so far, they weren't turning up anything. This didn't bother Jen, in fact she was pretty glad of that. Jon believed he'd been sold by his mother. Jen hoped that wasn't true, but even if it wasn't, Jon believed it was, even when he was told several times that "Richard" likely lied about that, too. Her heart went out to the idea of a woman searching for her child, but she didn't think it would be best to find her now.

"He needs stability," she said to Sheriff Aaron's wife, Sarah. "I think if we were to find this woman now, and she insisted he came home to her, he'd feel his trust was betrayed and emotionally, he would be back at square one." Sarah agreed. Aaron kept checking, but he promised both her and Sefa that if he got a hit, he would talk to them first.

In the meantime, how would they get Jon the care he needed? How would they get it so they could keep him at their place. She knew it would be a really bad idea if the state felt they had to take him somewhere else while the Reigns were evaluated and found to be worthy foster parents. Put on top of that the reputation of the Academy, of the whole family could be ruined if it was discovering they were harboring an under age child, illegally. People sent their kids who were Jon's age and younger to the summer camp sessions, Jen knew that any crime involving a child had the potential to harm the Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy to the point where it might never recover.

Thus, the good will that the Reigns had built up was put to work. Favors were asked, favors were called in. And as little as possible was said to Jon himself about it. Sefa and Jen also tried to keep as much of this away from Roman and Lance, but that was a little harder, especially with Lance, who was very curious about this new member of the family, and determined to find out everything he could about him. They volunteered a little more information to Roman, thinking he could handle it easier and he took the family stand on the whole thing, the less Jon knew the better, until everything was decided.

"Our situation is too unique," she said once to Sarah, who had come over for iced tea one afternoon and to offer her support, sympathy, and maybe even offer suggestions, seeing that she had once worked with troubled kids and had an idea how the State worked in that regard. "How many kid were abducted, escaped, and can't remember their real names? If they were abducted as infants, that would be one thing, but -"

Sarah had been about to take a drink of her tea, when she stopped and put the glass down. "That's it!" she said.

"What's what?" Jen asked, confused.

" _Infants!"_ Sarah almost shouted and Jen was glad Jon was upstairs taking a nap at the time. "Infants _are_ abducted. In most cases, whoever abducts them tries to get them ID, but sometimes that doesn't happen. And sometimes those infants get found before they're old enough to even say a word, never mind tell you a name, even if it's only a name the kidnapper gave them. Sometimes birth mothers abandon their infants in places like hospitals and churches. Infants who are unable to tell you their names. In some cases, infants who were born in secret and don't even _have_ names."

"Yes," Jen said, slowly, wondering where this was going. Jon certainly didn't qualify as an infant who couldn't talk.

"Such children are are considered to be Jane or John Doe children, until something can be done to identify them. And sometimes it can take awhile to find out where their families are. In the meanwhile, the child is given a sort of stand-in identification. The state issues an ID, usually under the name of John or Jane Doe, if they can't give a name, because if family can't be found, there are usually plenty of people more than willing to adopt an infant. But in the meantime, they go to foster homes and they need to have something that identifies them as a ward of the state so they can get medical care. If parents are unable to be found, the baby is put up for adoption, and in that case, a birth certificate is issue in the name the adoptive parents pick. A social security number is issued. Or, if the birth family is found, then the child will already have a social security number and birth certificate. The state ID number is no longer necessary."

"Yes, but those are _babies_. Jon is almost sixteen."

"Yeah, _we_ know that," Sarah agreed. "But I don't think the law gives an age limit. It's just assumed that any child old enough to talk would know their name, or at least what someone has been calling them. And, there might have actually been instances where an older child doesn't remember a name, maybe a blow to the head or something. I wouldn't be surprised if Jon's situation wasn't completely unique either; that a child was found who couldn't remember their original name and just refused to tell the name they were given. Either way, I believe the law is stated in terms of 'minor child.' Your Mox is a minor. He's very close to being old enough to possibly be declared an adult, if he wants to be, but he's not there yet. And legally, he has the right to foster care up until he's eighteen. Twenty one if he wants to go to college and his foster parents agree he can stay with them."

Jen felt a glimmer of hope. "Do you think this can really work?" she asked. "Do you think we can get him enough ID to get him the help he needs?"

Sarah shrugged. "It should. And I don't think it would be a problem to have this temporary ID issued under the name of Jon Moxley. I know there is no law stating it must be John or Jane Doe, it's just usually easier. But I'd almost guarantee that if an infant was getting closer to the age where they would start responding to a name and no adoptive or blood family has been found? Someone would give this child a better name and the temporary ID will be reissued in that name. Jon Moxley sounds fine. It would be different if he wanted to be called something that would set him up for ridicule, like Rooty Tooty Fart-fart."

Jen couldn't help but laugh at the name. "Where did _that_ come from?"

Sarah grinned. "When Kimmy was born, we didn't know she was lactose intolerant. Babies don't drink milk for awhile. But when we started giving her cows milk, she started producing some of the worst gas you ever smelled. Aaron Jr. started calling her that. 'This is my sister, Kimmy, but I call her Rooty Tooty Fart-fart. And if you stick around, you'll know why.'" Sarah did a good job of mimicking her now nineteen year old son when he was five. "Thank _god_ we found out what the problem was, before she was old enough to realize how embarrassing it was."

Jen thought about Kimmy, a fifteen year old girl who loved make up, the latest fashion, trendy purses, and all those things girly teenagers were supposed to love, but in the case of Kimmy, her love went up to eleven. Jen remembered the last time she had seen her, it was when Jen brought her car to the public High school car wash, which was raising money for some activity or another. Kimmy's nails were each painted a different color, and had a tiny gemstone in the center of each of them, and they had no chips at all, she might have just come out of the manicurist's shop. While a lot of the girls were wearing older, worn clothing, or even bathing suits, Kimmy had been wearing a casual skirt and T-shirt that Jen had seen in the window of Abercrombie & Fitch that very morning, while running errands at the mall. This was _not_ a girl who wanted anyone to know she had ever broke wind in her life, never mind earned a nickname of "Rooty Tooty Fart-fart." "Did Aaron Jr. ever use it to embarrass her?" Jen asked, knowing that if Marc had given Roman that nickname, Marc would have made sure that everyone who ever met Roman knew about that nickname, including any girls he dated, teachers he had, and the entire football team and cheerleader squad.

"No, we nipped _that_ in the bud," Sarah said. "You know Kimmy, if that ever got out, she would have hid in her room until she turned eighteen and nothing would convince her otherwise, or we would have had to move to a place no one knew her, let her dye her hair, change her name, and possibly even gotten her plastic surgery, so she could start with a new life."

Jen could picture it so perfectly, that she found herself laughing again, but quickly grew serious. "Do you really think this could work? The temporary ID and all?"

"I can't see why it wouldn't," Sarah said thoughtfully. "The only issue I see is that getting a temporary ID issued for a fifteen year old might raise a few brows and call attention, but I think if we are careful, we can avoid that. And, not to be crass, but the fact that he's white will make it go easier. If he were a little more on the brown side, the government would suspect he'd come from Cuba or some other South American country and this was some ruse to get him into the country. But that kid looks whiter than white, and I'm not talking the pale skin from the years of no sunlight. Everything about him screams 'white boy!' I hate to sound politically incorrect, but that's going to help him significantly. The state has an easier time believing that a white boy was born in this country and has every right to be here."

"Considering you're African-American and so is Aaron, I would have a hard time believing you were saying something politically incorrect." Jen said, "And you're just being honest. Jon _is_ a white boy. He certainly doesn't look like he's got any Hispanic heritage. He looks a whole lot whiter than we Reigns are. She allowed that glimmer of hope inside her to shine a little brighter, then frowned. "But this still leaves us with one big problem."

"Which is?"

"How do we get him into the foster system and placed with us, without having him taken away while we're going through the screening?" Jen sighed. "I get it, the state doesn't just want to give kids with no homes to just anyone, they want to make sure the child will be safe and cared for, but I don't think Jon will do well with a social worker questioning him. I think if Jon ends up in another foster home while we're being checked out, he'll regress backwards rather than move forward. I'm not too worried about Sefa and I being investigated, I like to think we're good parents."

"Your kids would certainly bear that out," Sarah said. "Marc is a fine young man, extremely popular with the women, but from what I've seen, they flock to _him,_ and I've never heard any woman accuse him of inappropriate behavior. To be honest, I think Kimmy had or might _still_ have a bit of a crush on him. Roman is the All American Kid. The coach at St. Anthony's loves him, and claims he's 80% of the reason that the Crusaders made the State Finals last year. And his grades must be good, because everyone knows St. Anthony's doesn't allow anyone to slide on their grades for any reason. And Lance? Well, he's Lance. The outpouring of love and generosity from the community when he was sick had just as much to do with him as it did with our feelings about your family in general. I think that any child would be _lucky_ to have you as their foster family."

"Okay, so we'd probably pass the qualifications," Jen said, blushing faintly under the praise Sarah heaped on her and Sefa about their kids. "But I don't know how Jon would feel about the scrutiny. He's not stupid. Naive about a lot of things, yes, but not stupid. He'll figure it out and be upset that we're jumping through hoops, that is if they even let him _stay_ here while they're checking us out. And, I don't think he'll do well with a social worker assigned to him." Jen bit her lower lip, the frustration of the situation overtaking her. "I think time can fix things, but in the meantime, Jon needs medical help, both physically and probably emotionally. I've been doing some research online, looking at statistics about the future of children who have been through things Jon has. And to be blunt? Statistic wise, the future for him is pretty bleak. I don't know what we can do to help him beat those odds. He's fixated on wrestling and for that I'm thrilled, because well, he can eat, sleep, and breathe it, here. And hopefully, it will give him focus. But we have to find a way to make sure he gets the help he needs. Doctor Proctor wants him to go to a dentist. Supposedly, his teeth are in 'pretty good shape for all he's been through.' That's good, but that doesn't say his teeth _are_ actually good, just that he's done well for a kid that hasn't been to the dentist since he was a small child. They need attention. He did admit to me the other day that his teeth in the very back sometimes hurt, and I'm thinking those are his Wisdom teeth that were never removed. And his ankle still requires attention and we want to get him in for a legitimate, top to bottom physical. And let's not-"

Sarah reached over and put her hand over Jen's. "Jen," she interrupted. "You're getting overwhelmed. Relax. We'll figure this out. The most important thing is that Jon _did_ stumble on you folks and you're willing to do what you can to improve his life. He's lucky about that. And no, we can't fix this overnight, but _we_ will fix it. I know people, you know people, Aaron knows people. We'll get the kid on the system one way or another so he can get the help he needs."

"I _hate_ waiting," Jen admitted.

"He's really gotten to you, hasn't he?" Sarah asked.

Jen remembered when Sarah and Jon had met. Sarah had dropped by, as she often did, for iced tea and conversation. Jon had been sitting at the kitchen table, reading from a wrestling magazine, the pocket dictionary she had bought for him next to him, in case he came across words he didn't know. After Jen introduced the two of them, Sarah had offered her hand so they could shake and warily, Jon shook his head and pushed back in his chair, fumbling for his crutches to stand up.

" _I don't have to shake hands with you," he said, sounding more hostile than scared, even though Jen knew better. "Sefa told me, I don't." He had turned to Jen with a desperate expression on his face. She told him he could go to the den, and he had hastily grabbed the wrestling magazine, rolled it and stuffed it in one of his back pockets, the dictionary in another, and hobbled off on the crutches as if he were terrified Sarah would hurt him, or maybe expect something from him he didn't want to give._

 _Sarah had heard about Jon from her husband Aaron, but even though she had once worked with troubled kids, Jon's reaction had surprised her. "He's a friendly one," she remarked when Jon was out of earshot._

" _Sefa told him that rule number one was that his body was his and no one had the right to touch him unless he wanted them to," Jen explained as she got two glasses of tea and put them on the table. "I don't think he meant to sound so hostile, but I think he's testing it to make sure it's really true."_

Sarah had let it drop after that and the subject went on to other things, but Jen knew Jon had failed to impress her.

"Yes, he has," Jen admitted. "I know he's got a lot of problems, but none of them are his fault. And, he's trying his best to fit in with us, which surprised me in a good way. Like with getting his GED. Sefa and I told him that if he's going to stay with us, he has to get his GED at least. He doesn't seem thrilled with the idea, but he agreed. But at first, he had a real problem with reading. He was kind-of self taught to read, but his reading material was so limited, that he was close to illiterate. We kept trying to find things for him to read that wouldn't talk down to him, but that he could still read. It wasn't easy and you could tell he was frustrated. I wouldn't have been surprised if he threw up his hands and tried to argue that it was hopeless. I saw him clench his jaw and his fists a lot, but he didn't stop. Then, Marc thought of wrestling magazines. We used to subscribe to all of them, in case they had articles about Sefa or folks he knew. And we kept a lot of them in storage. Marc brought in some and because they are generally written for all ages, kids to adults. Jon was able to read them and he loves them." She picked up the pocket dictionary Jon had left on the table, earlier, a small, red book, with various creases in the front and back covers, corners on pages folded, "I bought this so he could look up words he didn't recognized, and as you can see, it's pretty dog eared. I know a big reason why he's being so cooperative is that when his ankle is healed, Sefa said he could work at the academy in return for lessons and he can't wait for that. But I think the amount of patience he's showing, considering what he's been through, is amazing. Kindness, too."

"Kindness?" Sarah asked, looking a little skeptical.

Jen nodded. "Lance is fascinated by him," she said. "And, you know Lance. When he's fascinated with something, he will do anything he can to find out all he can about it or them. He can't go onto the internet and find out about Jon, so he's reduced to asking him questions. We've told Lance to chill on that, but again, you know Lance. He forgets when it comes to learning things. He forgets that tact is a trait he needs to develop. I've heard him trying to pelt Jon with questions, trying to get him to trip up and tell more than he should about how he's lived. I'll be honest, if someone was doing those same things to me, I'd have screamed at them by now. Jon never has. He just keeps evading him as best he can, or he tells him he can't tell because Sefa and I told him. 'You don't want me to disobey your parents, do you?' he asks. And if those things don't work, he finds one of us. He'll come down in the kitchen if I'm here, and sit down at the table, knowing Lance won't ask him questions when I'm here. He doesn't tell me, he doesn't say, 'Lance is being a pain in the butt, tell him to cut it out,' he just sits down at the table, maybe offers an excuse like he was hoping for a drink, or that the light is better in the kitchen for reading. I know people who have had a much easier time at life life lose their patience with Lance. Marc, Sefa, and I have lost our patience with Lance, and in general, we don't have anything Lance is as curious about as Jon does. Yet, Jon _never_ loses his cool. That says a lot about his character to me. That he can be _that_ patient and kind after the life he's had, tells me that his nature is to be a _good_ person, a _kind_ person. I don't want to do anything to destroy that goodness that still exists. I want him to be the kid that beats the odds that life has given him and actually makes something of himself."

Sarah nodded. "Okay, I can see that," she said. "I haven't seen that side of him, but if you say he has it, then he does. And we're going to make him your foster kid legally, and make sure he has the state medical assistance he needs. Because you're right, he does deserve a chance to become the best he can be, and this is the place where he can do that."

* * *

Mox knew things were going on that were about him, but that he wasn't being told about. And while he didn't know what they were, he knew all the signs that it was happening. He had lived too long with that being a regular thing not to pick up on it. "Richard" and Sam were always planning things that involved him, but never letting him know what they were until it was the last minute and certainly never giving him a say in them.

But the Reigns doing this surprised him. Sefa had shot him straight with the rules, with the doctor, all of that. Why would Sefa want to keep something from him? Was it something _that_ bad? Well, maybe it was something really awful to the Reigns, that wouldn't be that bad to him, because he was used to really bad things, but that didn't mean he liked or wanted those things, it didn't mean he _wanted_ what the Reign's were planning. He was tired of living a life like this, he thought he wasn't going to have to anymore, but here he was. _I wa_ _nt some control over my own life!_

Even worse, outsiders were involved. He suspected that Sarah woman was involved. And strangers were coming over and talking to members of the family, alone. And not just like they might be talking in the kitchen, while Mox was in the den, these strangers would take whoever they were talking with and go outside with them, or go someplace else more private, which told Mox he wasn't supposed to know anything about what they were talking about. When people started talking about you when you weren't there, Mox knew they were making plan that you'd have no choice but to do.

At least his ankle was getting better, and he had exercises he was supposed to do, which he did do, as often as he was allowed, and sometimes just a little bit more. He was even given a weird shoe like contraption and allowed to walk a little bit on it using only one crutch. He was even allowed to use the gym on a limited basis, mostly exercises that used his arms. Sefa talked about the days to come when Mox would be allowed to work and be trained. If all of that was going to happen, what was going on that was about him, that had to be kept a secret?

He almost broke down and asked Lance about it, because if anyone knew everything going on and would be likely to spill his guts about it, it was Lance. But Lance was smart, not just about books and things, Lance was smart about _everything._ Lance knew information was power and he would extract a price to let Mox know what was going on, and the price would be Mox having to tell him things about his past. Mox had promised Sefa he wouldn't do that, so asking Lance was out of the question. _I can_ _keep my promises,_ he found him thinking to himself, bitterly, _Why can't they keep theirs?_

* * *

On a Saturday afternoon, Jen asked Mox if he would mind bringing a can of coffee down to the camp dining hall. "Monique just called up and said they were out and I'm too busy," Jen explained, as she hung up the phone. Since the camp had been built when cell phones weren't popular, it had been fitted with a private phone system, each building assigned a two digit number you could dial. "Would you mind taking a can down for me? It would give you a chance to take one of those short walks the doctor wants you to take."

Mox had shrugged and agreed, thinking this sounded perfectly reasonable. Jen took one of the oversize containers of coffee from the pantry and put it in a bag to make it easier for Mox to carry.

He walked down to the mess hall, passing the outdoor wrestling rings, as well as the building that housed the indoor ones. Mox had learned that there were eleven wrestling rings on the property, four outside, four inside two that had tents over them, so they were sort of both indoors and outdoors, and one in the arena. The camp gave shows quite often, free of charge to attend, where the students of the academy could practice being in front of a live audience. While Mox hadn't had a chance to work the camp yet, he had gone to a show in the arena and that only made his longing for his ankle to heal even worse.

He got to the mess/dining hall and brought the can inside. Monique, a large woman with a warm smile, accepted it and then asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee. "I know you aren't supposed to have coffee," she said with a wink, "But what Jen doesn't know, won't hurt her."

He nodded and she motioned to one of the long tables in the dining part. There was already cream and sugar on the table, and Monique went to the kitchen section and returned with two thick white mugs filled with coffee and joined him.

He put sugar and cream in his coffee and stirred it, then frowned. "I thought you were out of coffee," he said. "That's why Jen sent me with a can."

"We are, this is just left over from breakfast," Monique said without a pause. Which seemed reasonable to Mox, so he didn't question it, at least not at first. But when over half an hour passed, and Monique got him a refill, he started to wonder. He'd been to the dinning/mess hall before, and never saw Monique sitting down like this, chatting like she had all the time in the world. Normally, she was bustling about. Monique was in charge of the kitchen. Jen planned most of the meals, but Monique was the one who made sure they were cooked and served. Every kitchen worker considered Monique as their boss, and nobody worked as hard as her. So, why was she hanging around with him like this?

 _She's keeping me busy because something I'm not supposed to know about is going on at the house._ He thought about asking her what it was, but decided not to. Either she didn't know and was just following orders, or if she did know, she was sworn to secrecy. So, he played the game and had some more coffee and tried to not show he was upset. Then the phone rang and Monique answered it.

"Hello?" Then Monique paused, listening to whoever was on the other end. Then she nodded, and said into the phone, "Well, that's good. I'll do that." And when she hung up, she was all business, telling Mox that he was welcome to stay and finish his coffee, but she had work to do.

Mox had already finished his third cup of coffee and rose to his feet, grabbing the one crutch he was using. "I should get back to the house," he said. "Thanks for the coffee."

"You're welcome," Monique said. "Just don't tell Jen I let you drink it, she'll want to skin me alive."

He assured her he wouldn't do that, then headed back toward the house. As he started up the rise that lead to the house, he saw Roman waving to someone who was driving out of the driveway in a blue, compact car. The car was too far away to see who was in it. Mox hurried as fast as he could, catching up to Roman as he was near the stairs leading to the mudroom. "Who was that?" Mox asked, sounding a little angrier than he wanted to.

Roman looked startled. "Uh… just a person," he stammered. "Uh… a friend from school."

"Oh? What was their name?"

Again, Roman looked surprised as if he didn't expect these questions. "Uhm… David," he said. "He-he came over to… uh, borrow a… a… a book?"

For some reason, Mox couldn't explain, Roman's attempt to lie made it worse. If Roman had told him to mind his own business, that would have been maddening enough, but the fact that was clearly lying to him, was too much. "You're a lying motherfucker," he spit out.

Roman got a look on his face that was the most uncomfortable expression Mox had ever seen and Mox knew it wasn't because he was swearing. "Uh," Roman stammered.

"Don't even try," Mox interrupted. "You can't lie for _shit_ , Roman Reigns." He felt his anger growing, and he tried to choke it back. Normally, he was pretty good at keeping his anger under control, seething on the inside, but acting calm on the outside, but he was finding that impossible now. Maybe it was because Sefa had shot him straight at the beginning and now there were secrets going on, maybe it was because Roman was lying, maybe it was because even though his instincts and past experiences had told Mox not to trust anyone, he had trusted the Reigns. Mox found himself unable to keep his anger in check. Before he could stop himself, he brought up the crutch and drove the rubber end into Roman's left knee as hard as he could.

"What the _fuck?_ " Roman roared, leaping backwards and reaching down to grab his knee. "Mox, what in the _hell_ is your problem?"

Roman wasn't a goody two shoes, when he and Mox were alone, Roman swore pretty good, but he never swore loud enough that his parents, Jen in particular, could overhear. "I'm sick of this!" Mox yelled. He tried to jab the crutch into his other knee, but Roman was staying out of range and Mox couldn't move nearly as fast as he did. "Something is going on, and I know it's got something to do with me, and everyone is fucking acting like it's not happening and I'm supposed to pretend I don't notice but I do and _I'm fucking sick of it!"_

"It's not what you think, Bro," Roman said, trying to diffuse the situation.

"Oh? Really?" Mox's one hand was clenched so tightly around the hand grip to the crutch, and the other balled in a fist, both so tight that his knuckles were completely white. "What is it I _think_ it is, Roman? Because I don't have a clue, because nobody fucking _tells_ me anything!"

Roman looked anxiously towards the house and to be honest, Mox was surprised Jen hadn't heard and come running. But, maybe she was upstairs or something. "I-I told my folks I wouldn't tell you," he said, then hastily added, "but it's not a _bad_ thing."

Part of Mox was almost relieved, at least Roman had admitted _something_ was going on. But it didn't change the fact that Sefa had spoken to Mox about honesty, promised to shoot him straight, and expected Mox to do the same in return. And Mox _had_ been straight and honest with the family, at least as much as he could be, and he'd even been honest about that, honest that there were times when he reserved the right to not answer questions. He was good about keeping Lance in the dark too, even when the kid was driving him nuts with his endless questions, Mox hadn't broken down, hadn't let anything leak about his past that might disturb the kid. Mox had held up his end of the bargain, and the Reigns weren't holding up theirs. "How do I know it's good or bad?" he repeated, swinging the crutch wildly, trying to hit Roman, who dodged it easily, because that bastard had two good ankles and could move just fine. "You fuckers are treating me just like _they_ did," he spat. "Like a fucking mushroom. No, even _worse_ than that. You're all keeping me in the dark, but you aren't even willing to feed me _bullshit_. No, I take that back, you did try earlier, Roman." Again, he tried to hit Roman with the crutch and again, Roman dodged him. "Bullshit about some friend from school coming over. That wasn't even _good_ bullshit, it was the _bullshit_ of bullshit."

"Mox!" Roman again dodged the crutch, which wasn't hard because Mox's swinging was wide and uncontrolled. "Bro, nothing bad is going on! I can promise you that!"

"If it's not bad, then why won't you _tell_ me?" Mox asked, his voice rising higher and higher, not just in volume, but in pitch as well. He had been holding onto this frustration for days, most of the time, pretending it wasn't there, swallowing it down, just like he always swallowed down the bad, pushing it into that hole, where all the bad stuff went, gathering up until the day came when he'd let go of everything and probably kill himself while doing it. But that hole felt like it was too small for all he was holding on to, and it was spilling out now, trying to get rid of it so he could make a little more room, live a little longer. He was angry at the Reigns, at Roman in particular right now, but Sefa right behind him, Jen too. And even more, he was angry at himself, for _believing_ Sefa, _believing_ Jen, believing that this whole family were _so_ much different than his father and Sam. Maybe they didn't do all the really bad stuff, but they were still just as guilty of plotting, of arranging things about him, behind his back. They tried to convince him that his father and Sam were the exception, not the rule, and yet, here they were, doing some of the same things "Timmy" had always hated. And Mox couldn't stand it anymore. "Fuck it, Roman, and fuck you," he spat. "Fuck your whole family, while we're at it. You don't want to tell me? Fine. I get how that works, I've been dealing with that shit all my life." He threw the crutch to the ground, standing unsteadily, trying to put most of his weight on his good ankle. "I just wish I could walk so I could get the fuck _out of here!"_

Roman stared at him, clearly not understanding anything that Mox was talking about, looking totally baffled as if he had no idea why Mox could possibly be upset about this. "Mox, don't you think you're overreacting?"

"No," Mox insisted. His body stiffened and he almost toppled, but managed to keep himself upright. "I get that you have campers here, I get that you guys have friends that stop by. Marc has women coming and going from his place. I don't ask about those, because I don't think that's any of my business. But nobody tries to _hide_ it from me, either." As he was speaking, Roman moved a little closer, and leaned over to grab the crutch, which he held out to Mox. Mox grabbed it angrily and shoved it under his arm to steady himself, which made him even angrier because he'd needed Roman's help. "You claim my father and Sam were wrong? Yeah, well, I give them one thing, they never tried to hide _people_ from me. If someone wanted to f-" he stopped abruptly and changed his words, "spend time with me, do shit to me, they didn't hide it. My father brought them right down to me and told them to have at it. But you and your family? You're bringing people in that I'm not supposed to know about, but yet I know it's got something to do with me. What the _fuck_ could you be planning with these people that is so bad that you can't even let me find out until it's too late?"

Now Roman just gaped at him, eyes wide, some of the color even drained out of his face. "Mox, do you really think we're plotting something bad about you? Do you really trust us that _little?"_

"Don't you _dare_ try to twist this back on me." Mox shook his head violently back and forth. "I'm not the one bringing people over to talk about you guys. And don't tell me they aren't here to talk about me, I'm not that stupid!"

"No, you're not," Roman said, which Mox took as admitting he was right. He'd known he was right, but it was at least decent that Roman was _admitting_ it. "But Mox, you've got to understand, just because you aren't being told something, doesn't make it a bad thing. I mean, what if we were planning a surprise party for you?"

"A what?" Mox asked. He knew what a party was, he'd even been to a few parties. Parties were for people to get together and get trashed. Parties were usually fun for most people, but while Mox enjoyed getting trashed, he didn't like some of the other activities that happened at a party. He did have vague memories of movies that might have dealt with something called a "surprise party," but maybe that was one of those things that had multiple meanings?

"A surprise party," Roman repeated. "You know, balloons, cake, you walk into the dark room and turn on the lights and everyone yells, 'surprise!' and at first you're stunned, then you realize what is going on and you all have a good time."

Maybe that was what he'd seen in movies before, because what Roman was describing had a vague feeling of familiarity. Mox frowned, then shook his head. "Stop trying to change the subject!"

"I'm not," Roman said. "I guess if you don't know what a surprise party is, you probably never had one or never went to one. I just mean that sometimes people do things and don't tell you about it because they are planning something you'll like, but don't want you to know about it until it's a fact, rather than just an idea.

"Okay, so what _awesome_ thing is being planned about me that I'll like?" Mox asked.

"Oh, crap, Mox, I don't know what to tell you," Roman said, looking almost as frustrated as Mox felt. "I promised Mom and Dad, and I think they should be the ones to tell you, since it's mostly their idea. I mean, not that all of us don't think it's a good idea, it's just that it was theirs fi-" He stopped, as Mox turned and started towards the camp. "Hey, where are you going?"

"To talk to your dad," Mox said, trying to hurry as best he could. "I don't want to get _you_ in trouble."

"Aw, _fuck!_ " Roman headed after Mox. "Bro, it's cool, it's nothing bad, it's just the folks were worried that having a lot of people coming and going and some of them talking to you would freak you out."

"You'll love it," Mox mumbled under his breath. "She's closer to your age, it will be fun,"

By this point, Roman had caught up enough to hear some of what Mox had said. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," Mox said. "None of your fucking business, _Bro_. I can have my secrets too, _Bro_. And that doesn't have fuck-all to do with you or your family, so I ain't telling you shit."

They had made it down the incline where the camp part was located. There were other people working with the students in the outdoor rings, and normally, Mox would have stopped and watched. But today wasn't normal; today he was pissed. "C'mon," Roman said, his voice pleading. "Let's get a grip here, you can't go charging-"

"Yes, I can, and I will!" Mox cried. He could hear Sefa in one of the tents, yelling at one of the students about how they were messing up on a move called a face plant.

"You do it like that and you'll bust your nose," Sefa was yelling. "Did you forget that the point of wrestling is _not_ to get hurt, just to pretend you do? Because this is _not_ a school for boxing or martial arts! You're supposed to do everything in your power to keep someone safe, including your own stupid self!"

In desperation, Roman put his hand on Mox's shoulder. "C'mon, he's teaching a class."

Mox twisted away. "You're not supposed to fucking _touch_ me, unless I say it's okay."

"Mox, I'm sorry," Roman held up his hands in a surrender position. "I was just trying to stop you from barging in. You know how dad hates it when we interrupt him while he's working."

"Yeah," Mox nodded. "But right now, I don't give a fuck."

"Maybe you should, Mox." A third voice joined the argument. Sefa must have overheard the fighting and come from the tent. "What the hell is going on, you two?"

"Mox is flipping out," Roman said.

"I am not," Mox said, even though he really was and he knew it. "I'm just sick and tired of all this fucking make believe."

"Dad, he's figured out something is going on," Roman said, his voice sounding almost desperate. "He's suspected for a long time, but when he saw me telling Ms. Clarke goodbye in the driveway, he flipped out. Dad, you _have_ to tell him."

"Aw, shit," Sefa muttered. "Okay, give me a minute." When he saw Mox's nostrils flare and his fists clench, he shook his head. "Mox, give me _one_ minute. Use the time to untwist your undies."

Mox refused to answer, but he did take a few deep breaths, trying to get a grip on himself.

Sefa walked back into the tent shouting, "Marc, take over for me, maybe you'll have better luck drilling information into their thick heads. I've got something I've got to take care of."

Either Marc agreed, or Sefa didn't stick around to find out if this suited Marc or not, because he came out of the tent almost the moment the words finished coming from his mouth. "C'mon, Mox," he said. "Let's go talk."

"We can talk right here," Mox said.

"No, we can't." Sefa's voice was calm, but firm. "Jen is going to be involved in this conversation. Because she should know what I'm telling you." He started heading back to the house.

"Why? So you two can compare notes on the bullshit you're planning on telling me?" Mox asked.

"We _haven't_ bullshit you, Mox," Sefa said, in that same calm voice. "We've omitted things, but we haven't lied to you. But Jen is as much a part of this as the rest of the family is, and she's got the right to be in on it, when I tell you."

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** **First, thank you to everyone who has read this story. Extra thanks to those who favored or followed it. Even extra thanks for folks who left a review. I really do appreciate it.**

 **I keep meaning to mention... I got one of those twitter things. The name on the account is (Shift 2) EdmondWillow. Most of the stuff I write is pretty dorky. I do most of my writing in a coffee shop now, and yeah, a lot of weird or funny stuff goes on in coffee shops, so that's what I tweet about. If you follow me, likely I'll follow you. I have like _three_ whole followers, so you know I'm a _total_ trendsetter. **

**Now is the part you can skip over if you don't care what motivates me to write. I try my best to be as legit as possible with what I write, although I write fiction and nobody should take it as actual facts.**

 **I tried very hard to find out what type of legal wall the Reigns family would be up against with Mox, talking to an actual lawyer, a police officer and other folks. And for every person I asked, I got a different type of answer. About the only things they all agreed upon was:**

 **1: Mox being born in the '80s and taken in the '90s meant that it would be a lot harder to track him down. That they did not have the resources and databases they do now. And the fact that Mox does not know the name he was given at birth would make it even more difficult.**

 **2: The fact that Mox is obviously a white kid would be a huge help in getting him temporary ID. Especially in Florida, which gets a fair amount of non-white refugees. I don't think it's right or fair, but it _is_ fact and it was fact in 2001 too. A white boy is likely to be believed to be born in the USA over a non white boy. People are more likely to believe a white boy really is someone without an identity. Also, there were still people born in the USA in the '80s who were not given a birth certificate. Children born into cults or rural areas, etc. It was a lot more rare than in the '70s, but it still did happen. **

**Other than that? Everyone's advice contradicted everyone else. "You can't become a foster parent while having a kid living with you." "If they hired the kid as an employee, they could have him live with them..." "The family could lie and say he told them he was eighteen and he's working for room and board..." "If the FBI found out about him, they would grab him to question him." "The fact that's he's fifteen could mean that the FBI would consider him not a victim." "He would be considered a victim." "They could legally arrest him for anything he did after the age of 14, that being the age of consent in some places," So on and so forth. To the point where I was about ready to junk the story.**

 **So I finally just figured "Screw it. I'm just going to write the best I can and try to make it as believable as possible." Because this is wrestling fanfiction and... for those of you who have watched it, I'm going to quote a line from my favorite You Tube Video, called _Wrestling isn't Wrestling_. And the line is, "These are things you don't have to worry about, because wrestling isn't real." (If you do not know what I am talking about, look it up on You Tube. _Wrestling isn't Wrestling_ is absolutely awesome) I get that we fanfiction writers try to be more realistic than Wrestling itself can be, (let's face it, you have a company that is all for 'let's not be bullies!' and yet their one solution to every problem is, 'let's beat the crap out of them!' 'Let's kick them in the privates! Let's pull hair, slam them through tables!' I get it, but realism is not exactly something they're sweating about) but sometimes you don't let reality get in the way of a good story.**

 **So, if I got something wrong in all the mumbo jumbo being tossed about, and you know something for a fact, just... don't let it bother you. Again, this is a story, it doesn't necessarily go the way real life would.**

 **Until next time...**

 **Peace Out**

 **Willow**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

When it was all said and done, everyone but Sefa felt a _little_ stupid, but that was only because Sefa felt _really_ stupid. What made them think they could have kept this from Mox? And why didn't they realize that trying to keep it a secret was going to make it worse?

When they came into the house, Mox thudding furiously, trying to make as much noise as he could with one crutch, Jen was in the kitchen, sitting at the table, which was also her makeshift office, and she had papers scattered all over the table. When she saw Sefa, Roman, and Mox come in, she looked at the three of them, gathered up her papers and put them in a semi neat stack on the chair Lance normally sat at. Nobody had to tell Sefa's wife that some serious talking needed to be done, it was obvious. As Mox, Roman, and Sefa were seating themselves, she got up. "Before whatever is going to happen, happens, would anyone like some iced tea?"

Sefa nodded, and Roman said, "That would be great, thanks Mom." Mox said nothing, but when Jen came back to the table, she had four glasses of iced tea and she gave one to Mox, who looked at it as if he wanted to drink it, but was afraid that would be a sign of weakness. Instead he folded his arms over his chest and glared at the glass as if it too, had been keeping secrets from him.

"The game is over, Jen," Sefa said, when she sat. "Mox knows something is up and he was giving Roman holy hell about it. And to be honest, Jen, I'm _relieved_. This sneaking around didn't quite feel right to me. I know that our hearts were all in the right places, but Mox is going to have to learn to get along in this world, we can't shelter him. Letting him be part of this is a good start."

Jen had looked at her hands for a moment, while Mox continued to scowl, and Roman just sat there with a hangdog look on his face. Then Jen had squared her shoulders. "Mox, we're trying to make it so you can stay with us. That is what has been going on."

Mox looked baffled. "I _am_ staying with you," he said, then looked panicked. "Did… did my father find me? He said he'd adopted me, Roman said he was lying, that you had to do stuff like go to court to adopt a kid. Was Roman lying or did my father go to court and not tell me? Shit, has he _found_ me? Has he threatened you? Has he seen _Lance?_ You can't let him see Lance! He'll _want_ Lance and he'll try to get him away from you." The words came tumbling out of him, and his voice was rising in pitch, sounding more afraid and more childish. That was when Sefa really knew hiding this from him had been a very bad idea. Of course the kid was going to connect it to "Richard." "I'll leave," Mox continued, looking frantic. "I'll run off and that way-"

"'-Richard' hasn't found you," Sefa interrupted before the kid's melt down went nuclear. "And there is no way he could claim legal custody of you, not with the abuse you suffered at his hands. But the problem is, that you're a minor. And the law is that minors cannot take care of themselves."

"Great," Mox muttered. He went back to scowling, but Sefa could still sense his relief that Lance was safe. "First I'm too old, now I'm too young."

"You are not too old," Jen protested. "You're just fine. But the law states that minor children need to live with their parents or legal guardians. If a child doesn't have a legal parent or guardian, they become wards of the state. The state then tries to place them in a foster home, with people who will care for them until they are adults, or until someone adopts them."

"So you're trying to be my foster parents?" Mox said, and scratched his head. "Wait a moment, didn't Lance say that foster kids were miserable or something? Like the night I came here?"

"Lance reads a lot," Sefa said. "And he's right, a lot of books about foster parents paints them in a negative light. But, except for this issue that we're discussing now, do _you_ think we've been treating you badly?"

Mox hesitated, then shook his head. "No. You've actually been pretty good." He looked down at his hands, and Sefa could see some of the anger slipping out of him, could see the tension leaving his body. Then he looked up, "So? tell the state you want to foster me. What's the problem? Unless you _don't_ want to foster me? But you said you _did."_

They all explained to Mox that the problem was that he was a non-entity. He had no birth certificate and no social security number that could be found. In order for them to become his foster parents, Jon Moxley had to be brought into existence and issued temporary identification that would recognize that he was a person. And they also explained that not just anybody could become foster parents, that the state had to make sure a foster child placed in a home would be properly cared for.

"But you guys _are_ good!" Mox's anger had turned completely over to bafflement. "I mean, homemade cookies, beds for everyone, laundry, bathrooms, a brilliant kid and a football star. What _could_ be wrong with you?"

"Nothing, at least that's what I'm sensing," Roman spoke then. "They had to talk to Lance and I as well, to make sure we were okay with this. And we are. That's who I was talking to today. Her name is Ms. Clarke, and she's a social worker. She asked me stuff like if I minded sharing my bedroom and all and I said I didn't mind at all."

"So its all cool?" Mox had asked.

"Well, it isn't official yet, but we have passed inspection and we are being fast tracked through the system to become foster parents," Jen said.

"Okay, so, why didn't you want to tell me?" Mox's head tipped to one side. "Were you afraid I wouldn't want to stay with you or something? Because so far, I think _I_ got the better end of this deal."

That was where things got a little bit stickier. Mox's opinions on law enforcement of any kind was pretty negative, not at all surprising when you understood the lifestyle he was raised in. Sefa had no doubt that "Richard" and Sam had spent a lot of their time trying to stay out of the way of any law enforcement, but they were probably close to paranoid about the FBI. And of course they had done their best to make Mox just as scared and paranoid too.

"I was told if the FBI ever found me, found out about me, that I would be thrown in jail." Mox said. He had decided the iced tea was alright to drink now, but he seemed more interested in holding the glass, letting the condensation run down his fingers. "I… I was told that if anyone ever found out about me, except them and the people they knew, that people would think I was bad. They would see me wrong, especially the police and FBI and the people who are in charge."

Sefa sighed. He'd been afraid of that, and a tiny bit grateful two emotions that were far from compatible He didn't want Mox to live in fear of the FBI, but considering what they would most likely do to him if they had a chance to talk to him, some distrust could help to keep him safe. "Mox, what happened to you, getting kidnapped, that's a case for the FBI. Not the local police. Especially because those two guys you lived with took you all across state lines. The FBI shouldn't want to give you a hard time, or throw you in jail, but if they find out what you've been through, they _will_ want to talk to you."

Mox looked nervously around the table, at Roman first, then Jen, then finally to Sefa. "But… I don't really _know_ anything. I mean, most of the time I lived in the basement of whatever house we stayed in."

"But you did meet other people," Sefa said. "You even told Roman you had met other kids. And, if you met other kids, you met other adults."

"I did a whole lot more than _meet_ them," Mox mumbled.

"Yeah, I suspected as much," Sefa said. "The problem is that you were involved in something pretty big. Probably something the FBI knows exists, but haven't found a way to stop it. You could be the thing that could break this up."

"How?" Mox asked, looking nervous.

"They will want names," Jen said. "Of anyone you can remember. The kids you met, the adults you met, anyone and everyone. Mox started to speak, but she talked over him. "I know that nobody gave you real names. But they will want the fake names. They will want you to describe what these people looked like. They will want to know everything you did."

"They may also accuse you of not being as much of a victim as you were," Sefa said.

Mox's nostrils flared. "Just because something, sometimes felt kinda good, doesn't mean I _liked_ it!"

"I know, Mox," Jen reached out and hesitated, looking at him. Mox gave a slight nod and she put her hand over his. The whole family were trying not to touch Mox without getting some type of permission first. It was the hardest on Jen, who was used to offering comforting touches to her kids, but the two of them were developing a non verbal shorthand between them. "And it doesn't mean you gave permission, or that it was right for anyone to do it to you. But, sometimes the FBI get a little too... eager. We don't want you to feel like you are being pushed around."

Mox's right hand raised up to his left shoulder and he began to drum his fingers over his collar bone, a clear sign to the family that he was nervous. "I don't think I can help them," he said. "I-I spent most of my time in the basement. Even if we were in a place where my fa- I mean, 'Richard,' allowed me upstairs, he made sure the windows were all closed off and dark. Yeah, people came over, a lot of people, but it wasn't like I hung out and talked to them. If they, uh, wanted to spend time with me, they talked to 'Richard.' And when I did spend time with them, talking wasn't very important. And I didn't spend time memorizing their faces. Usually I spent my time trying to forget them."

"I know, Jon," Jen said, her hand still over his left hand, the one that wasn't dancing along his collar bone. "That's what we're the most worried about. That the FBI will find out about you and want to talk to you and you won't be able to handle it."

"Great, I feel like such a pussy," Mox muttered, but his fingers stopped their drumming and just rested instead.

"You're not a pussy, dude," Roman said, shaking his head. "Traumatic events can suck it right out of you, and seriously, most of your life sounds like a giant traumatic event, and I don't know the _half_ of it."

"You don't _need_ to know the half of it, it's over," Mox said, trying to shrug it off, but Sefa saw those fingers beginning to tap again. "I just… don't want to talk about it."

"And we don't want you to feel you have to," Sefa said. It was true enough, at least as far as the FBI was concerned. There was talk about getting Jon to see a talk therapist, something the social worker thought was necessary for him. But a talk therapist wouldn't judge him. The FBI would.

"So," Jen said, "Now that this is all out in the open, are you willing to talk to Ms. Clarke? She's been assigned as your social worker. We were trying to get as much of this done as we could, trying to make sure we were all set before we told you about this, but since you know, it would be easier for everyone if she could talk to you. Yes, she will want to talk to you alone, at least sometimes, but we'll make sure we're nearby."

Mox sighed slowly. "I don't _want_ to," he admitted, "but I will, because I guess I _have_ to."

* * *

The first time Mox met Ms. Clarke, he'd been worried that she would want to discuss his past with him, that maybe when they were alone, she would turn out to be like the FBI and start demanding things from him, thinking he had information that he didn't have. He had been unable to sleep the night before, tossing and turning in the dark, until he woke Roman up, who wasn't exactly thrilled, seeing that he had to wake up very early for football practice. Not wanting to disturb him anymore, Mox went downstairs to the den with a hardback copy of _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_.

Lance had introduced him to the Harry Potter books, telling him that yeah, the first two were a little babyish, but when he got to the third book, he'd realize they were getting better and better. Mox had thought the first one was pretty much a kids book, but it was a lot more interesting than those kiddie books he'd had for his only reading material for most of his life. They actually told a _rea_ l story, not just a repeating of the same words, like _Green Eggs and Ham_ , or so simple,with so few words that really the whole story added up to a paragraph, like _Clifford the Big Red Dog_. This Chamber of Secrets book had a bunch of words and the story was actually pretty good. He still loved reading wrestling magazines a little more, but he thought a real story would take his mind off of the next day.

So, by the time Ms. Clark had arrived, Mox hadn't gotten much sleep and he was a little paranoid. He wanted a cigarette in the worst way, even though he hadn't had one since he'd run away from "Richard."

He wasn't sure what he expected Ms. Clarke to look like, but he was pretty sure it wasn't like she actually looked. She was pretty with skin the color of coffee with just a splash of cream in it, large brown eyes, and very short, curly hair that Mox almost wanted to ask her if he could touch it, so he could experience how it felt. He knew better though, asking to touch someone's hair was weird. He didn't want anyone touching his hair, especially not a stranger, he assumed Ms. Clarke would feel the same way.

She was wearing jeans and pink t-shirt that made her skin look even warmer. For some reason, he thought she would be wearing some severe looking dress, or a plain skirt, some dark color, and a white blouse. He would realize later that he expected her to look and dress like some old and matronly teacher from some teenagers coming of age movie. Instead, she seemed about Marc's age, and he wondered if she and Marc had met yet, because she looked as pretty as any of the woman that seemed to always be coming over to visit Marc, even when he was working.

She didn't ask him any questions about his past, either, which was another pleasant surprise. Instead, she asked him questions about how he liked living with the Reigns and when he said he liked it a lot, she started asking him specific things, like was he getting enough food, did he feel like he was a member of the family, or more like a guest? He told her he wasn't sure of the difference, but maybe he felt a little more like a guest. When she asked him why, he shrugged.

"I think it's because I don't have chores to do," he admitted. "Until my ankle is completely healed, I don't have chores and everyone else does. I mean, I have to work on school stuff, because I promised I'd get my GED, but that doesn't seem like a chore." He frowned then shook his head. "Well, I'm not saying it's fun, it isn't because I am so far behind. But that isn't something that everyone benefits from," he explained. "It's something I am supposed to do for just me."

She wanted to know if he was looking forward to doing chores like Lance and Roman did, and he admitted he was, but he hoped most of his chores would involve having to do things in the academy, because he really wanted to work with wrestling. To his surprise, she knew a little about professional wrestling, and they talked about that for a bit, which was kind of cool. Then she asked him what he thought of Roman and Lance.

"Roman is cool," Mox said. "I share a room with him, and he doesn't really mind. He has a lot of friends and stuff, and they come over, and he introduces them to me, and lets me hang out with them. Some of his friends are jerks, but that's not on Roman, and if they really start acting like assholes, Roman tells them to cut it out." Then, he realized what he said and said he was sorry about using the word 'asshole' and explained that he had learned bad habits, like swearing, before he met the Reigns, so she shouldn't think they were the reason why sometimes he swore. He _didn't_ tell her that when Roman was with his friends or someone else that was swearing, like him, that he could join right in with the best of them. He also didn't tell her that Sefa swore a lot when he was teaching the wrestlers. He figured that was information she didn't need to know.

"And what about Lance?" she asked, not commenting on the swearing.

"Lance is _really_ smart," Mox said. "And he asks lots of questions, because he wants to know everything. But I like him. He says some pretty funny stuff for a kid. Sometimes I talk to him and _I_ feel like the little kid and _he's_ the older one, but that's only because he's so smart. He was really sick for awhile, so sick he couldn't go to school, but he went on the internet and learned there and kept going further ahead. He goes to a school for gifted kids."

Then she asked about Sefa and Jen and he was honest about them as well. He did not tell her anything about the meltdown he had that had lead up to them finally meeting and talking, because he didn't think she needed to know that. _If she asked me specifically about that, I would have told her._

She wasn't there too long either. But she did end up coming several times and talking to him. Most of the time, they talked about the same stuff, what he thought about the family, was he happy, so on and so forth. Like maybe she thought that she needed to ask him several time, in case his opinion changed.

She was able to get him that temporary ID stuff that Jen had said was so important, which meant he spent more time with doctors, and had to go to a dentist. The dentist was surprised that he wasn't in more pain, because his wisdom teeth, while not impacted, had major cavities because he couldn't get a toothbrush properly back in his mouth to care for them. So, he had to get those removed, which wasn't fun, but wasn't as painful as he thought it would be. And they gave him some stuff to relax him while he was having the procedure done, and while he was told it was mild, it sure didn't seem mild to him, it made him feel like he was trippin' balls. When it was done, they gave Jen a prescription for painkillers he was allowed to take for a few days. They weren't nearly as strong as whatever they gave him in the office, but they took away the pain for a few days, and by the time the script was done, the pain was gone. He also had to have several cavities filled. But the dentist agreed with Doctor Proctor that it could have been a lot worse. He had his teeth cleaned and polished too, and at first he would run his tongue over his front teeth, marveling at how smooth and clean they felt.

"Your breath smells better, too," Lance told him when Mox had explained why he kept licking his teeth. Lance had noticed of course, and asked him if his mouth was hurting.

"My breath was bad before?" Mox asked, feeling a little embarrassed. He had been told before he had bad breath, by 'Richard' and Sam, and sometimes, before they brought people over to "spend time" with him, they made him brush his teeth or use mouthwash. But since he had started living with the Reigns, he brushed his teeth twice a day. And if he ate something that was supposed to give you bad breath, like something with onions or garlic, he would go upstairs and gargle mouthwash.

"Sometimes," Lance said. "Don't feel bad, it wasn't your fault. But bad teeth give you bad breath and your teeth were bad. Now they aren't. So they shouldn't be smelly if you brush and floss every day. It's not like Einstein, whose breath usually smells like dead fish."

"Well, what can you expect from an animal that licks his own butt?" Mox said. They were sitting in the den. Roman was with them, and started laughing. Einstein was also in the room, sleeping on the back of the chair Lance was sitting on. He looked up with a haughty expression, as if he understood exactly what was being talked about, but just had absolutely no fucks to give about it.

Lance joined in laughing with Roman. "That's a good point."

Mox grinned back, then frowned. "Was my breath _really_ that bad?"

"Nah," Roman said. "I mean, full disclosure? If I'd been a girl who was dating you, I probably wouldn't have wanted to give you a full on French kiss, but other than that? Most of the time you were fine."

Mox shook his head. "Between doctor's appointments and dentist appointment and physical therapy for my ankle and studying to learn enough to take my GED test, I feel like being a free person means I'm always having to go somewhere and get stuff done that I don't want to have done. The only difference is that this is stuff I don't want that is _good_ for me."

"Welcome to the human race," Roman said, grinning.

Lance looked over at Mox. "What did you have to do that you didn't like before?" he asked.

Mox froze. Of course Lance would see that as an opening to stop prying. Yes, he knew he could tell him he wasn't going to answer that, his usual fall back, but that was getting overused and Lance was getting fed up with hearing it.

"Lance, use your brain," Roman suggested. "You've heard the story of Cinderella. right? How the evil stepmother and her bratty kids made Cinderella do all the worst chores and treated her like a slave? I mean, the fairy tale never gave away too many of the details, but you can use your imagination. The people that took Mox over here were even _worse_. Mox was probably doing nasty chores from sunup to sundown."

Lance frowned. "If that's true, then why isn't he willing to talk about it?" He asked. "I mean, it's not like doing chores is _bad."_

Mox felt a little bit offended that he was being treated like he wasn't even in the room, but he was more curious about how Roman would handle this.

Roman rolled his eyes and Mox had the feeling he was putting it on a bit for Lance's sake, trying to make Lance feel like he was overlooking the obvious. "Remember when the septic tank for the camp got messed up and overflowed and back flowed and started pouring stuff up through the shower drains, back into the toilets that overflowed? And all of us except you, Mom, and the dining staff had to put on those hazmat suits and clean it up? And then everyone had to shower with special soap, just to be sure? Remember how awful that was? Do you think that when they went home, the students wanted to talk about it? Wanted to describe how horrible it was, how it smelled so bad and looked a lot like gray mud, but it was poop?"

"I'm sure a lot of them talked about it like it was a big joke when it was over," Lance said, looking skeptical. "I'm pretty sure they were even joking about it before their session ended."

"Yeah, but imagine if every day of their lives that type of stuff happened," Roman said. "Cleaning up poop, or dealing with other, really miserable things. After awhile, it wouldn't be funny, it would be miserable. Now, imagine also, that nothing _good_ ever happened to offset the bad. You cleaned up and did horrible chores from the moment you woke up until the moment you went to sleep. The next day the moment you woke up, you did it again. You never could catch up, because every time you finished one thing, the guy that kidnapped you, would throw food in the corner, track mud all through the house, clog up a toilet, let his dog pee and poop all over the rug, whatever he felt like doing, not caring what type of mess it made. He didn't care, he knew he had you to clean it up. Even worse, he would invite his friends over and tell the they were allowed to do whatever they wanted, make all the mess they wanted, and not to worry, because it hey, he's got you to clean it and make it right. On top of that, they don't feed you very well so you're always hungry and tired. Finally, you have enough of it, because life sucks. You never get to do anything but sleep and clean up crap. So, you run away. And people start asking you about your life before. Cleaning up crap isn't funny, you've done it as long as you can remember. You don't want to talk about it, you just want to have a life that doesn't involve your having to do all that stuff and you sure as heck don't want to talk about all that… _shit,_ either." Roman looked steadily at Lance, never once breaking his gaze. "You managed to meet up with some nicer people who want you to have a life where you don't have to live like that anymore. Where you can get enough sleep, get enough to eat, where you are not only allowed to do things you enjoy, you are _encouraged_ to do them. But, there is one person in this house that constantly wants to talk about what it was like when you were working every moment you weren't sleeping. You try to tell him you don't want to talk about it, but this person keeps wanting to know. And, because this person is really smart, you know if you just say that you had to do miserable chores all day long, he will want to know exactly how bad the chores were. What they involved. If you say that you were forced to scrub the kitchen floors with a toothbrush, the smart guy will want to know why you couldn't use a bigger scrub brush. He'll ask you why you didn't think that using a bigger brush would be better. Why did the person who took you think that a toothbrush was an effective way to clean a floor when there were much better solutions, so on and so forth. Do you think you'd want to discuss it with him, knowing that for everything you tell him, he's just going to have a million more questions? Would you enjoy that, Lance?"

Mox hadn't taken his eyes off Roman while he gave his speech, but now he turned to look at Lance. Einstein had moved from the back of the chair into Lance's lap, and Lance was petting him, looking down at the cat, refusing to look at Roman. "No," Lance finally said. "I don't think I'd like that at all." He looked up and over at Mox. "Is that really what it's like when I ask questions? Does it really make it seem like you're still living back with them?"

Mox nodded, feeling a cross between relieved and worried. He didn't want to hurt Lance's feelings, but he was also tired of evading the kid. "Sort of," he said to soften the blow. "I mean, I get it, you're smart and you want to know everything. But there is nothing about my past that I can tell you that will make you smarter, none of it is really _knowledg_ e, it's just bad stuff. If I thought anything was useful, I'd tell you what it was, but it wasn't useful."

Lance nodded, then looked away, back down at Einstein, who was purring like crazy, as if to try to force Lance to feel better. He stood up on Lance's lap and bumped his head into his owner's chin. "I'm sorry," Lance finally muttered.

"Don't be," Mox said, still feeling that strange cross between being unhappy that Lance was feeling bad, and relieved that this might actually get the kid off his case. "It's something that is hard not to ask about, I can see that. Because it's a lot different than the life you're used to."

"It's like a train wreck," Roman agreed. "It's kinda creepy, but people do it. It's one of those things people are wired to do, to want to see or hear about the bad stuff."

Lance nodded, still focusing his vision on Einstein. "There are a number of theories on why people like to watch or hear about bad things," he said, as if he had to prove he was smart, even though neither Roman or Mox were questioning his intelligence. "Like those shows on that cable station that are always about murder. Some psychologists say we are drawn to that stuff because it helps us to learn empathy. Others say it is a way of training ourselves to deal with tragedy for when it happens to us. And still others say it's a way for us to feel better because it isn't us, it's them that are suffering. Which is kinda mean when you think about it."

"What do you think it is, Lance?" Roman asked.

"Likely a combination of all those things," Lance mumbled, still petting Einstein.

"I think in your case, you do it to explore empathy," Roman said. "You want to understand more about the world. And, I think you understand suffering more than most, but mostly from your own life experiences. You understand what it's like to be really sick, which you know is horrible. Now here is Mox, who probably suffered as much as you did, but in a completely different way. Part of you feels a kinship to that suffering, but because it's so different from what happened to you, you want to understand it better."

Mox watched in amazement as Roman interacted with Lance. First he brought Lance down by making him feel that he was being too noisy about Mox, then, he brought Lance back up by telling Lance that his curiosity was, in it's own way a good thing. This was something he needed to think about. _People are a lot more complicated than I thought they were._

When Lance left the room, a few minutes later, feeling better, but curious as to what Jen was making for dinner, Mox looked at Roman. "Thanks."

"Any time," Roman said, shrugging as if this were no big deal. "This should work for awhile. Probably not forever, but for awhile."

"We kind of lied to him," Mox pointed out.

Roman looked grim for a moment, then the corners of his mouth turned up in the slightest of grins. "Not really. I suggested really bad things that 'Richard' might have had you do. I didn't say they _were_ the things he had you do, just suggested that they might be. I don't consider that lying, I consider it only giving Lance what he can handle right now. Things will probably change when he gets older, unless by then, he's so used to you, that he doesn't even really think of you as that guy with the tragic past, you're just another older brother, the one who didn't join the family until later."

"Do you really think I'll be part of your family for that long?" Mox asked, hoping his voice didn't sound as wistful as he was feeling.

"Uh, _yeah,"_ Roman said, as if this was the silliest thing he'd heard in awhile. "Dude, Mom and Dad are just waiting for the paperwork. They passed. You are their foster son, and our foster brother. _Brother._ " he repeated.

"But what if we find out someone is looking for me?" Mox asked, his right hand rising going to his left collarbone and starting to tap his fingers along it. He was barely aware he did it, except that the Reigns had a habit of staring at it. "I mean, I don't think it's going to happen, but it might."

"We deal with that when it comes," Roman said, shrugging. "I don't think it's going to become an issue any time soon, and you'll be old enough to decide if you want to go there soon enough. And even if we do find a blood family member is looking for you, and you go and live there, it doesn't mean you're not family."

"Being a foster parent isn't the same as adoption," Mox pointed out.

"I think my parents would be willing to adopt you, it's just that an effort has to be made to find your birth family." Roman was sitting in his favorite recliner, and as usual, was sitting sideways, his back leaning against one arm, his legs draped over the other. This allowed him to face Mox easily, who was lying on the sofa with his bad ankle propped up on pillows. He didn't have to do this nearly as often as he had at first, but Jen still liked him to rest it for a bit, especially after he had done physical therapy, which he had earlier that day. "But, it doesn't matter," Roman continued. "You're _family_. Even if you end up leaving us, you're still _family."_

Mox looked at him, unable to say anything, because there was a lump in his throat and it was blocking off his words. They didn't stop his thoughts thought. _God, you're a pussy, Mox._

If Roman saw that Mox was feeling a little emotional, he didn't let on. Instead he just grinned. "Face it, Mox, you are stuck with us forever."

Mox didn't think that was a bad fate at all.

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_ **For everyone who lives in the States? I hope you had a good Thanksgiving.**

 **Since I've been very honest about having cancer, I think my readers have the right to know the good news... my latest scans showed I am clear. They had one spot they were worried about and they are no longer worried about it. So, while I still have to have blood work up every three months, unless the blood work up shows something wrong, I only have to be scanned once a year. So, for now at least, I've won the cancer lottery.**

 **My hope is that Joe Anoa'i wins the same lottery, soon.**

 **Peace Out**

 **Willow**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"You're done with me," Danielle, Mox's physical therapist said one afternoon, "There is nothing more I can do for you. And while I like you, Mox, I hope I never have to see you again, at least not in a professional capacity."

Mox couldn't help but grin, thinking these were among the sweetest words he had ever heard in his life. He had known this day was coming, Danielle had told him several times that she wished all of her patients were as eager to recover as he had been. His ankle had taken almost the full twelve weeks to heal, but Danielle made sure he understood that it needing that time had nothing to do with his efforts.

"If effort counted, you would have been healed weeks ago," she explained to him, more than once. "But, that was a really bad sprain and you have some other health issues. But we _will_ get there."

And she was right, because here they were. Mox's ankle was _healed_. He could walk on it just fine, no need for anything, not a crutch, nor the cane he still carried, but had very rarely used the last week or so. He didn't even have to wear a special shoe thing to keep his ankle in the right position. He wore sneakers now, Nike's, which were bought just for him, completely new, and as far as Mox knew, they were the first shoes he ever owned that hadn't been worn by someone else first. In fact, he had a lot of clothes now that had been bought, brand new, just for him. Clothes that fit him perfectly, that weren't too large for him to make him look pathetic and younger. Jen had taken him to Walmart to buy everything but the sneakers, which was kind of overwhelming, so much stuff to see, and so much he didn't know the names of, that Mox felt like he was on sensory overload. But Jen had guided him to the clothing department and helped him find a few pairs of jeans and some t-shirts, underwear, and socks. He was amazed at the amount of clothing she bought and baffled when she apologized for not buying more.

"When you're fully healed and able to work out, I think you're going to put on the weight and muscle you need and I think these clothes will become too small. Sefa and I also suspect that you'll be going through a growth spurt in the near future, so we thought it was best we didn't buy you too many new clothes and wait until your measurements are a little more stable. In the meantime, we'll fill the holes in your wardrobe with the clothes we have at the house."

Now Mox had more clothing than he could wear in a week, even with Jen's rules about how often clothing should be washed, which Mox thought was a little on the high side. But, he had also concluded that he preferred a little on the high side over almost never, which had been the case in Timmy's life.

The afternoon of his final physical therapy appointment, Roman had come along so he could get in some driving practice. When Mox walked into the waiting area, both Jen and Roman looked up at him with looks of anticipation. The waiting room was long and rectangular, and Mox was at the far end of the room. He still had the cane, which he barely used, but now, he started using it, moving towards Roman and Jen, looking as if he was trying not to grimace. Both Roman and Jen looked crestfallen.

"Are you okay?" Jen asked, as they both rose from the cheap, plastic, uncomfortable chairs and headed towards him. "You were doing so much better when we came. Did something go wrong? Did Danielle overwork you?"

Mox paused and looked down at his feet as if too ashamed and disappointed to look them in the eye. "There's only one thing I can do now," he mumbled.

"What?" Concern dripped from Roman's voice, which made Mox happy. Not that Mox wanted Roman to be unhappy, but it was nice that Roman liked him enough to actually feel disappointed if things didn't go well for him.

Mox gave a long sigh, then he looked up, grinned and held the cane up over his head. "Put this thing in storage with all the other medical stuff, because I sure as hell don't need it anymore."

"Bro, you're a _jerk,"_ Roman said, now grinning. He reached out to mock punch Mox in the shoulder, but did not actually touch him.

"Oh, Jon, I'm so happy for you," Jen said, and Mox thought she might actually have a tear in her eye, not a sad one, one of those tears you got when you were so happy that your brain couldn't hold it all in, so it had to leak out of your eyes. She held her arms out. "Can I give you a hug?"

Mox didn't hesitate, he walked into her arms and they hugged each other. In the time he'd lived with the Reigns, Mox had learned to actually enjoy being hugged or touched by the family. It mostly happened with Jen, but Mox didn't mind the few times Lance had hugged him, or Sefa had put an arm around him to squeeze his shoulder, or Roman and Marc gave him a slap on the back or a mock punch to the shoulder. They always hesitated and asked or at least gave him time to refuse, but Mox was actually trying to find a way to tell them it was okay, that when it came to them, they could just do these things and he wouldn't mind. That he wanted to give them blanket permission. He still wasn't sure of strangers touching him, but the Reigns weren't strangers anymore, they were something else, they were _family_.

When they broke apart, Mox looked at Jen. "So, does this mean I'm allowed to start working at the camp? Like the _wrestling_ part?" He had been doing some things already, because they didn't require him to do much walking. He had washed dishes and helped wash and fold the sheets for the dorm beds. He had been allowed to watch some ring training, but now that he had been cleared, he wanted to work around the rings and when possible, actually _train_ with these folks.

"Yes, you're cleared for that," Jen said, smiling. "But, I don't want you training yet, until after your appointment with Dr. Proctor. If he gives you the green light, then you're good to go."

"When's my appointment?" Mox asked.

"Tomorrow at ten o'clock."

Mox pretended to ponder this, then nodded. "I guess I can wait until then."

Jen chuckled. "Just remember, Jon, wrestling comes _after_ your studying and household chores."

"I got it," Mox said. He would have loved to have protested this, but he was realizing that was part of being a family too, that sometime you just had to realize there were arguments you weren't going to win no matter how hard your tried.

* * *

The next day, Dr. Proctor did clear him for any and all physical activity, telling both Mox and Jen that his ankle was at least as good as it was before he sprained it, and likely even better. He also had Carl draw blood, which had nothing to do with his ankle, but because they were monitoring things like his vitamin D levels. He still had to take prescription vitamin D tablets, but his scores were rising every time he was checked.

"We'll have the results in a few days," Carl told them. "And we'll call you. In the meantime, have fun, enjoy life, do some walking."

Carl's words were optimistic, but Mox knew things weren't perfect. X-rays had shown that Mox had suffered several broken bones, which wasn't a surprise to Mox. Apparently though, Sam might have actually been a medic in the army, because for the most part, the breaks had been set correctly. A few though, had not. Dr. Proctor had sent him to an orthopedic doctor named Dr. Choi, who was most worried about his left shoulder. Apparently, that had been broken at one point and had not been properly cared for. Mox remembered that one, because Timmy thought he was dying. Breathing was difficult and he felt queasy all the time, even when he was hungry. He wasn't much use to 'Richard' at the time, because his arm was in a sling, which hadn't made Richard very happy. Dr. Choi was keeping a close eye on it, afraid it wasn't growing at the same rate as his other shoulder. There was talk that the bone might have to be re-broken and reset to make it work as well as the other one. But, at this point it was just talk. Mox had been building up his arms, chest, and shoulders, because that could be done even with a bad ankle. He hoped that as he built up his muscles, that the shoulder would build up too. Jen was feeding him calcium rich foods and giving him supplements, that he was sure were a lot better than the ones 'Richard' gave him. He suspected the multi vitamins Richard had him take were the cheapest he could find. And when he was thirteen, all Richard gave him were vitamin D tablets which apparently had been useless.

* * *

Much to Mox's amazement, the Reigns actually celebrated that Dr Proctor had cleared him. That night, Jen made baked, stuffed, pork chops with an apple glaze. She had made them for one Sunday dinner and Mox had told her that while he thought everything she made was great, these pork chops were his favorite. She served them with cooked carrots and homemade dinner rolls. Dinner was a cake. like a _real_ party cake, chocolate with chocolate mousse between the two layers and the outside of the cake frosted with a white, buttercream icing. The icing had this extra frosting along the edge, and on the top of the cake, written in red icing was "Congratulations!" And under the word, was a simple drawing of a foot and ankle done in a peach colored icing. Little lines were drawn coming out of the ankle, to make it look like it was so healthy it radiated energy.

Mox felt a lump in his throat when he saw the cake. "Did-did you make this?" He asked.

Jen nodded. "I took a class in cake making and decorating class years ago. I hope you like it."

Mox swallowed rapidly. "I love it," he said, doing his best to keep the tremble out of his voice. "Thank you."

Even if the cake had tasted like cardboard covered with paste, Mox knew he would love it. But of course it wasn't bad at all. It was absolutely delicious and Mox was glad there were six of them to eat it, because if he'd gotten it alone, he probably would have eaten the whole thing. As it was, because it was made in his honor, he got two slices. When he was done, he had that glazed "too much sugar" feeling.

He also didn't have to help with the dishes that night, even though technically, it was his turn. Instead, Roman and Marc did them. Marc didn't have to do a lot of house chores, because he didn't live in the house, but since he ate there so often, he was expected to take his turn with the dishes.

* * *

"Do you know what's weird?" Mox asked Roman as they were both getting ready to go to bed that night. Mox was actually _in_ bed, looking at one of the wrestling magazines.

"What?" Roman had just left the bathroom, and even though he wasn't close, Mox could smell toothpaste on his breath. Mox liked the smell of toothpaste and he wondered why someone didn't make toothpaste smelling air freshener. It would be a whole lot better than flowered air freshener, or all those other silly scents like "Fresh Cotton" or, "Fall day." Toothpaste smelled strong, and nobody was surprised to smell toothpaste coming from the bathroom. Mox knew that if he walked into a bathroom and it smelled heavily of roses or some other make believe smell like "Fall day" that it was covering up the smell of shit.

"Why don't they make air freshener in toothpaste scent?" Mox asked, even though that was not what he had planned on saying.

Roman thought about it for a moment and shrugged. "I don't know." He walked over to his bed and sat down on it.

"Toothpaste smells clean and fresh," Mox continued. "I like it, and it's a good bathroom smell. Better than that body spray you use."

"Hey, what's wrong with my body spray?" Roman asked, pretending to look hurt.

"Nothing, except that it smells like spices mixed with cat piss."

"Hey, girls _love_ how I smell!" Roman protested.

Mox looked at him. "You probably _could_ bathe in cat piss and girls would still date you. You look like a teenage version of those dudes on the cover of romance novels. You're all buff and shit. You do that football thing, and you do that gym thing. I guess teenage girls really go for that."

"Jealous?" Roman asked.

Mox shook his head "Nope, I'm not into that."

"Are you into dudes?" Roman asked. Mox knew he was trying to be casual, but that he really did want to know. But Mox sensed it wasn't coming from a bad place, that Roman wanted to know, because it would be something else he knew about Mox, and probably something he could tease him about. Because, as Mox was finding out, that's what brothers did. They teased the hell out of each other and Mox hated it and loved it.

Again, Mox shook his head. "I'm not into _any_ of that stuff," he said. "All I want to do is to learn how to wrestle. As far as I'm concerned, people spend way too much time obsessing about sex. Which reminds me, wanna know what's weird?"

"You mean, besides that there's no toothpaste scented air freshener?" Roman asked.

"That was something I thought of when you came out of the bathroom," Mox explained. "Because I smelled toothpaste on your breath. That wasn't what I meant to say was weird, even though that's weird, too. What I was going to say I found weird was that I don't have time anymore."

"Time?" Roman's head cocked to one side and he looked at Mox. "Time for what?"

"Everything I want to do," Mox said. "And it's weird because I used to have all this time and nothing to do. I spent hours and hours, sometimes even days and weeks in the basement. A lot of times, I had a TV set that had a built in VCR. But I couldn't watch any TV shows on it. I just had tapes I could watch. So, I watched all those tapes over and over again. I used to wear out some of them by watching them over and over again. But I didn't have music or books or anything else, really. I mean, I had a few kids books, but after about the millionth time you read _Green Eggs and Ham_ , it starts getting boring. I slept a lot. A couple times, I was kept in a basement that had a real bathroom, with a shower and everything and I probably showered ten times a day, if I knew 'Richard' and Sam weren't around to bitch that I was wasting hot water. I mean, I was always bored, you know? Wishing time would just pass. Wishing I had the nerve to kill myself sometimes. Or, say and do the wrong things so 'Richard' would do it for me."

Roman frowned, brows furrowing. "You didn't really want to die," he said, and Mox wasn't sure if Roman was trying to comfort Mox or himself. "I mean, you ran away."

"The urge to survive is strong in humans," Mox said. "At least that's what Lance tells me, and I guess he's right. But seriously, I had so much time because I had so little to do. And now I have so much I want to do that the days just seem so short."

"I get that," Roman said, looking happier, as if glad to not be talking about dying anymore. "I'm almost upset that the team made the playoffs. Yeah, I love football, but if we hadn't made the state finals, we'd be done by now. I'll be honest, Mox, I'm glad you want to work the camp so badly, because I feel like Dad could use some extra help and I just don't have the time."

"I will be happy to work the camp, I am so looking forward to that," Mox said. "I wish I didn't have to spend so much time working on stuff to get my GED, I'd rather be working the camp and training. I don't mind doing chores, but that sitting in front of a computer trying to teach myself stuff is boring. And I know it's going to be even worse now that I can be working in the camp or training. That's going to be my new basement in a way."

"I sure hope it isn't going to be like being alone in a basement," Roman said, rising from his bed for a moment, to pull the covers down.

"Nah, it probably won't be that bad," Mox conceded. "But boy, it would be nice to find eight to ten hours in the day that nobody else knew about."

"Oh yeah," Roman agreed. "I read that there is a guy who never sleeps somewhere. Like never. He may close his eyes for twenty minutes, but he doesn't sleep. I want to be that dude. I'd love to be able to not need sleep."

"Me too," Mox said. "Like right now, I want to get up and go to the gym and work out. Because I'm really looking forward to doing stuff tomorrow that I can't sleep. But I want to sleep, because I want to be wide awake tomorrow so I do things right."

"I get that," Roman said, yawning, "but, try to sleep. And if you can't, give me half an hour before you turn on the nightstand light to read. Because I need my sleep, too."

Mox nodded. When Roman was settled in bed, Mox put the magazine on the nightstand and turned off the light. Part of him thought he might end up going into the bathroom to read, so he wouldn't have to wait a half an hour. But, he thought maybe he should just stay in bed and watch the alarm clock, which was on a dresser across from the beds, so they had to actually get up to turn it off. It was one of those very old fashioned "digital" alarm clocks that instead of lighted numbers, the numbers were on little cards that flipped. Every sixty seconds to mark the minutes, every sixty minutes to mark the hours. There was some tiny light above it so you could see the flipping numbers, even in the dark. Mox found the flipping of the numbers oddly satisfying. It seemed so right in a way he couldn't explain. Like it was a mark of order in a world of chaos. He didn't know why other clocks didn't see quite as right as this one did, but they just didn't.

Despite his certainty that he would never get to sleep, he only watched ten minutes flip by. Then he closed his eyes for just a moment, and his body drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: Without going into details, things around our place are pretty bleak right now. Physically, we're fine, it's just mentally and emotionally, we've been knocked down and knocked down hard. Right now we'll be okay, the end of January, unless we can find solutions, we'll be in trouble.**

 **I am not asking for sympathy, i just mention it because of the story. Right now I am going to try my best to update weekly. As I said, the story is roughed out for the entire first story, and about half way for the second. I will at least post the first story in this series. I would still like to post it a chapter a week, but if I find that's too much, I might post all chapters at once. Either way, this story will be finished and posted. It might look a little rough towards the end, because I don't know if I can do the editing and rewriting I usually do, but I won't leave my readers completely hanging, I promise.**

 **Peace Out**

 **Willow**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

In the days that followed, Mox realized that he was happier than he could ever remember being and that happiness could be overwhelming in large, fairly constant doses. He was almost glad he did have to do his GED studies, otherwise he was afraid he'd overdose on happiness, as though it were cocaine or ecstasy.

"You'll strike a balance," Lance assured him when Mox mentioned this to him one day, minus the drug references. "It'll become more and more normal."

It was early dawn and Lance was showing him that there was a path that lead through the wooded areas of the property, down to the pond and around. Mox had been running the track every morning, running with the campers around the professional running track in the camp, but he mentioned to Lance that sometimes he thought it would be nice to go running where he could see different scenery, not just run the same oval over and over again. Lance had told him about the cross county running path and offered to take him. They were walking the area so Mox could study it and learn it. Not a slow walk though, they were both keeping a good pace. Lance had told him about the talk/sing rule that he learned from his own recovery, that a brisk walking pace was one where you could talk, but not sing. "I think one of the best things I ever heard about happiness came from a book my mom has. Have you ever heard of Betty Smith?"

Mox shook his head. He liked that about Lance, that the kid always asked him if he'd heard of someone or something, not just assumed he had, or assumed he hadn't. he didn't make a big deal about it either, he just casually mentioned things and if Mox nodded he continued. If Mox shook his head, he'd explain.

"She wrote chick lit, long before chick lit was even a thing," Lance said. "She wasn't the only one either, but the term chick lit hadn't been invented. It might even be considered no longer PC because some women think the term 'chick' is degrading."

"Chick lit?"

"It's short for Chick Literature. Books that appeal to women. Not just romances, but books that deal with different things. Best friends, raising children, so on and so forth. Books that focus mostly on women. Betty Smith is really famous for a book called _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,_ which is mostly about a girl who grew up in the early 1900, It was written in the '40s, which was probably a good thing, because if it was written now, it probably would have been dismissed at chick lit and guys would have not bothered to read it. But it's a really good book. But, her _most_ chick lit type book is called _Joy In The Morning_. I didn't really like that book as much as her others, it was a little too sappy at times and the heroine was a little too, _charming_. She is portrayed as immature, almost childlike in her nature, yet she manages to get herself into a college lit classes, and the professor is just charmed with her writing abilities. She never attended High School, which was acceptable back then, but still, It starts to grate because she's just _so_ charming and _so_ wonderful, that even when she's being an utter pain in the ass, it's still charming. Even when life goes badly for her and her man, they manage to turn it around so it's all cute again."

"Okay, so what does all of that have to do with being happy?" Mox asked, slightly puzzled at this rant against someone for being charming.

"Well, there's one part in the book where she describes happiness as being something so huge that you just can't hold it in your hands, so you put it aside and break off pieces of it, and those pieces are called contentment. That stuck with me, because it rings true with me. Of course, something can come along at any time and smash that ball of happiness at any time, but if that doesn't happen, it's like she says, you take pieces of that ball of happy, bits that you can hold and that's contentment."

Mox thought about that for a bit, remembering his own visualizing of those balls of shame, embarrassment, all those miserable things, that he imagined pushing down farther inside of them. "I wonder if it works the other way?" he pondered.

"What do you mean?"

"If you can get so miserable and unhappy that you can't hold it all, so put that somewhere and break off pieces and those are called depression."

Lance's brows furrowed, his head tipped to one side and he even slowed down his walking as he thought about this. "Yeah," he finally said, nodding. "I never thought about it that way, but now that you say that, it does work the other way, too. I should have realized that before, too."

* * *

Mox had two immediate "bosses" at his job, people that taught him the ins and outs of working the camp. One was Marc, who trained him how to work around the ring, which wasn't too hard. Bringing water for the guys, wiping down the ropes, even cleaning the floors of the rings. "Lots of blood, lots of sweat, lots of chances for infections," Marc explained. "So, we do our best to keep it clean."

Mox loved working around the ring because he got to watch the training, which he would study carefully, so when it came his time to learn, he would at least know the the mechanics of it in his mind, if not his body. The only thing he didn't like was when the students puked, which happened far more than he would have thought, and usually it was when they ran the ropes.

"It's a right of passage in a sense," Marc explained, as he showed Mox how to clean it up, which was in itself a process. There were buckets around the place, and if a student could do it, they tried to puke in the buckets. But often they missed and then it had to be cleaned up. If it had a lot of solid matter in it, you swept it into a dustpan that had holes drilled in it. You separated the liquid from the solid, threw the solid away and then mopped up the liquid. Even if it landed _in_ the bucket, you had to separate the solid from the liquid, but there was a screened lid you could put over the top of the bucket to make it easier. "Almost every wrestler has, at one point, run the ropes for so long that they vomited."

"I can't _wait_ for my turn," Mox said, wrinkling his nose as he cleaned up the mess made by the latest student. The worst was that he kept wanting to blow chunks himself, just from the smell.

"Why do I sense sarcasm in there?" Marc said with a grin. "And no, it doesn't count if you toss your cookies while cleaning it up. You have to be running the ropes. So, in the meantime, here." He pulled a small jar out of his pocket and tossed it to Mox.

Mox caught the jar. It was glass, no label on it, and filled with a whitish substance. "What's this?"

"It's smelly stuff you can spread on your upper lip to help mask the smell of puke," Marc said, grinning. "We used to keep Vaporub around, but after awhile, you get immune to the smell, and it's really not good for your nose in the long term. So, Mom and I learned to make something like it, ourselves. Well, to be honest, _Mom_ learned how to make it, and taught me. This way I can switch around the oils so it smells different, every time I get used to one scent. This is peppermint and clove and it should help. Someday, I'll teach you how to make it so you can come up with your own scents. It's not hard."

"Thanks," Mox opened the jar and sniffed. It smelled strong, but it was a pleasant, strong smell. Like someone did a half assed job of brushing their teeth after eating a ham dinner. He dipped his fingers into the pot and smeared some under his nose. "Wow, that is a whole lot better."

Marc taught him other things too. If he didn't want to run with the wrestlers in the morning, he could stand out there with Sefa and Marc and "man the hose." It was just a regular water hose, but with the heat, someone had to stand out there and spray the campers with the hose during the worst of the hot months. The first time it happened, the students looked absolutely pissed off, but by about the third lap, they would put on speed to get to that hose, get to that cool dousing of water.

Marc started training him too, when work was over. At first, he taught Mox to run the ropes, which wasn't quite as easy as it looked like. But run them he would, over and over again. Sometimes, when school was over, Lance would join him, and one would run east and west, and the other south and north. That was even harder, coordinating the passing with the other person, so neither had to stop or dodge.

Marc and Sefa started teaching Mox the basics too. How to fall, how to do a faceplant, how to do a back fall, how to roll to his feet and to make it look effortless and graceful. Learning the basic rules made watching wrestling different, because now he studied each wrestler and tried to identify the moves they were doing, and realized a lot of the moves were the same things, just altered or renamed. He realized that he had always known this in some way, almost every wrestler had their "signature moves" which were often moves other wrestlers used, but altered slightly or renamed to suit their wrestling character. Like when the Undertaker did a piledriver, it was called a tombstone piledriver. Mox wondered if wrestling would become more boring to watch, as he learned to pick it apart, but he found instead, that made it more interesting. Sometimes, as he watched Raw with the family, he would find himself calling out the moves, even if the announcers didn't. "DDT, Faceplant, Roll and stand…" The first few times he did this out loud, when he realized he looked around feeling sheepish. But nobody was frowning at him. Instead, he saw Sefa's head was nodding, just slightly letting him know he was calling them off correctly.

He trained as often as he could, trying not to be too impatient when he had to do school work. Family chores he didn't mind, because he felt that doing them made him someone who was earning his place. The same with working around the camp. He earned his lessons by helping the camp to run smoothly. Sometimes, when he had work to do in the arena, he walked down the small hallway that lead to the sitting area and ring, passing pictures of big name wrestlers who were all graduates of the Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy. He would say each name in his head. Then, when he got to a blank spot, he would whisper to himself but out loud, "someday, that could have your picture there, Mox."

If he was done with school work, chores and the camp work was done, if no one was around who could train him, or property practice with him, Mox would run the ropes. It was the one thing that no one insisted that he have someone there for. So, he ran those ropes alone, as much as he could.

He hadn't puked though. And he wasn't sure if that made him better or worse than the students who did.

* * *

His other boss at the camp was a former wrestler, who never made it much further than the local, small time promotions, until he got in an accident involving a forklift at his other job and lost part of his leg and his foot. His name was Allen Hammond, but he was called Gimpy by everyone, because even though he walked fairly quickly on his prosthesis, he still had a slight limp. Mox thought the name was kind of mean, but Allen didn't seem offended at all. "It's just a nickname," he said, when Mox said he would only call him Allen, if that's what he wanted. "And nobody says it to be mean, they say it because it's a part of me. I don't care if you want to call me Al, Allen, or Gimpy. Just don't call me Mr. Hammond, I don't stand on formality."

At first Mox called him Allen, but everyone called him Gimpy, and after a few days, Mox started calling him that too, not meaning to, but just falling into the habit.

It was Gimpy who taught him how to sterilize the gym equipment, how to clean the cabins, which were just two rooms, a room full of bunk beds and a bathroom with multiple sinks, toilet stalls, and showers. Along one wall of the sleeping room was a row of lockers, one for each bed. The lockers were for the campers to stash everything they brought with them. Campers were told of the locker size before they came and were given a list of suggested items to bring. If you brought more than could fit in a locker, that was your tough luck. You could ask Sefa, Marc, or one of the other coaches to lock the extra things in the outbuildings used for storage, or you could find a corner of the cabin to stash it, and hope that your fellow bunk mates weren't thieves.

Mox learned quickly that wrestlers could be and often were, complete and utter slobs. They would leave the sinks a mess of toothpaste, shaving cream, hair stubble, and other things Mox would rather not think about The toilets were usually disgusting too, and the showers usually had half dissolved bars of soap in almost every soap dish, shampoo splattered about, and drains that constantly had to be cleared of hair, because a lot of wrestlers had long hair. They threw towels on the floor, which meant that they had to be given new, fresh towels every day, which meant a lot more washing. A clean bath towel, hand towel and washcloth were left at the foot of each occupied bed, once it was made.

Mox learned how to make the bunks every morning with military corners, because the campers were not required to make their own beds. He learned how to change the sheets and remake the beds once a week. He got an odd satisfaction out of seeing all the bunks made up with their perfect corners and identical gray blankets on them. Even the clean towels looked right up there. Like he was bringing order to chaos. Of course, the next day it would all be chaos again, but for that small time, before the students returned, order ruled.

There was a small supply closet in each cabin, stocked with personal sized bars of soap, extra linens, towels, and various other supplies that might be needed. The closet was kept locked, and if a camper needed access to anything, they had to find Gimpy or one of the trainers to unlock it and let them get what they needed. The first week or so of working, Mox never even opened the closets or restocked them, he just did the cleaning and made up or changed beds.

One day, as Mox walked into the bathroom in one cabin, he realized there was about an inch of water covering the floor, along with shit, like literal _fecal matter_ that was giving off such a foul odor that he just walked out of the bathroom, gagging. Gimpy was stripping sheets off the beds and he looked over and saw Mox opening the jar of scented salve Marc had given him and smearing some under his nose. "Uh oh," Gimpy said.

"Something is _really_ wrong in there," Mox gasped.

Gimpy came over and walked right past him into the bathroom. "Aw, for the love of God, one of those idiots clogged up at least one toilet and it's all overflowed."

Mox came in looking around and trying not to gag, even though he could no longer smell it. Gimpy grabbed one of the plungers that were kept in each cabin bathroom and started working on unclogging the toilets. "What do we do about, you know, the actual _shit?"_ Mox asked.

"We're going to get a hose and hose this room down and sanitize the hell out of it," Gimpy said, and Mox heard the sloshing of water as he worked the plunger. "There's a hose stored in the out-shed behind the other cabinet. Can you go get it?"

Mox nodded, feeling sorry that Gimpy was stuck in here with the filth, but glad for the escape, even if it were merely temporary. He went to the other cabin. The out-shed was a tiny structure, short in height and closed only with a bolt. He opened it and saw a green hose right away. He grabbed it and went back to the cabin.

By the time he got back, he heard the sound of the toilet flushing, not the one Gimpy had been working on when he left, but another one. " _Three_ toilets," Gimpy said, as he emerged from the stall. "They clogged up _three_ toilets. I'm gonna talk to Monique and tell her whatever she's feeding these guys, to stop. They are getting _way_ too much fiber." He shook his head and chuckled as if he found the situation slightly amusing, even if the aftermath was horrible.

Mox held up the hose. "I brought it."

"Good."

There were four tiny metal plates in the walls, all in different locations. Mox had never wondered what they were for, never really even noticed them, but he found out that each of them were covering up a hose bib, that Gimpy attached one end of the hose to. On the other end of the hose was a nozzle that had a plastic container attached to it. Mox stared at it, wondering what the plastic container was for.

"Mox," Gimpy said, "Catch."

As Mox looked up, Gimpy threw a ring of keys at him. "Go into the supply closet and get some bleach. The stuff in the bottle with the red label, that's the industrial stuff. The key is the one with the green tag."

Mox caught the keys and went to the closet and opened it. The first thing he saw, because they were at perfect eye level, were green plastic bags, tightly wrapped around something. And his blood instantly went cold, no more than cold, it felt as if it were _frozen._

He stared at the bags, swallowing several times, starting to shake. Part of him was trying to tell him to calm down, that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for what he was seeing, but that voice was much smaller than the part of him that knew exactly what was in those plastic bags and what they had always meant. His legs turned to rubber, and he found himself sitting on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, burying his face into his knees. "No," he whispered, "No, no, no."

He had no idea how long he sat there, shaking, just saying the word "no," over and over again, not even sure if he was saying it out-loud, or just in his head. It seemed like hundreds of memories, maybe even thousands of them, washed over him, every memory so similar to each other, that they became one huge memory, one huge ball of shame, anger, self loathing, and every other bad emotion. This might be the biggest and heaviest ball of bad ever, or maybe it was just that the hole he used to push these things down into had grown a little smaller living with the Reigns, but this one refused to go down. He felt as if he was in a trance.

He was backwards in time, his father was telling him they were going somewhere and that it might be a long time he was in the box, so he'd better get ready. And Timmy was shaking his head, begging, pleading with him not to make him do it. Saying he could handle it, determined that he really could handle it, but knowing deep down that he couldn't.

He was vaguely aware of someone in the background calling out to him, but they weren't close enough, either in time or distance for him to really hear them. They weren't calling the right name, either. He was Timmy right now.

He could hear noises like someone was getting closer. Was it Sam? Was he in the basement? Was Sam going to tell him and his father that they had to hurry up? He could feel warmth on his shoulder, like someone putting their hand on it, and he quickly jerked to throw it off. _No one can touch me unless I give them permission_ , his mind told him, followed with, _anyone can do anything they want to you. All you are good for is to be used. Do what they want, do what they tell you, it doesn't matter, you're not a person. If you do what they want, they will be nice to you. They might even be_ good _to you. It's worth your shame, it's worth your disgrace to earn their favor._

Now someone was snapping their fingers in his face and he heard, "Mox, Mox, what's wrong with you? Answer me!" The voice wasn't his father's voice, or Sam's but still seemed familiar. "Friends" of his father? Were they here to use him? No, that couldn't be it, because they had to get going. Nobody ever went with them when they went places that took a long time to get to. Sometimes even Sam traveled separately, and met up with them later.

Then, whoever it was stopped the snapping and the calling and Timmy drew up into a tighter ball, hearing the sounds of uneven walking on the floor, which was weird because it was hard to make noise on a basement floor. Then all the outer voices became silent and all he heard was his father, yelling at him telling him they were going on a goddamned trip and Timmy had better fucking get ready, Right. This. _Second_. It was dangerous when his father bit words off. Very dangerous, but Timmy couldn't move, all he could do is huddle, trying to draw his knees further into himself, wrap his arms even tighter around his legs. This was one of the few things he still fought about. He knew he would lose, he would _always_ lose, but he still fought. Because this was the worst. Pain sucked, but this was humiliation, this was being forced to feel as if he had no control over anything that happened to him. This was not only feeling like everyone in the world was betraying him, this was feeling like he was even betraying himself.

How long he sat there, he had no idea, because when you were stuck in the past, not just in one time in the past, but maybe a thousand, maybe even a _million_ times, real time stopped working. He had a feeling things were going on around him, he could hear noises, but they weren't the noises he was used to hearing. They weren't the soft, pleading tones of his father, as he tried at first, cajoling Timmy into doing what he wanted, promising him special rewards if he would just do it.

" _You'll like the new place," his father was saying. "There is a bathroom in the basement, so you'll always have water and you won't have to use a bucket when you're alone. I hear there's even a shower. So, when it's all over, you can clean up."_

 _Timmy didn't care, at least not now. He knew when he got to the new place, if his father wasn't lying, and there really was a bathroom, he would be glad, grateful even, but right now, he was just tired. He wasn't a baby anymore. He hadn't been a baby when they grabbed him. And he didn't want to be a baby._

* * *

The first person Gimpy found when he got out of the cabin, attempting to run as best as he could on his prosthetic foot, was Sefa. It had been a relatively dry day for Florida, so Sefa was working a group of students with one of the outdoor rings. Two students were having a mock match, Sefa was yelling instructions as the other students watched. The normal rule was that Sefa wasn't to be disturbed while teaching, unless it was an emergency, but Gimpy figured this qualified. "Sefa!"

Sefa looked up and towards him with a expression of annoyance, until he saw how fast Gimpy was hurrying, and the worried look on his face. "What's wrong?"

"Mox is having some kind of breakdown," Gimpy said, taking deep breaths. "He's curled up on the floor, he's shaking, and he's totally unresponsive."

"What happened?" Sefa asked, then before Gimpy could say anything, he looked at the students. "Do things," he ordered. "I don't care what they are. Run the ropes, practice moves, braid each other's hair, just _do_ things, I'll be back."

"I don't know what happened," Gimpy answered honestly as they both headed to the cabin. "Three toilets were clogged in the bathroom, and the floor was a mess, and smelled like ass. I was fixing that and I sent Mox for the hose. He came back with it, and I told him to get some bleach so we could wash down and sterilize the room. I gave him the keys to the supply closet, and nothing. He doesn't come or anything. So, I go out there, and the kid is all curled up, knees to his chest, arms around knees, face resting on knees. And shaking like suddenly the AC in the room cranked itself to freezing. He won't respond to me, so I went and got you. Should I go get Jen? Call an ambulance? Is he having a nervous breakdown or something?"

"Let me check it out," Sefa said, hurrying past him. Gimpy wasn't offended, he knew Sefa could move a lot faster than him.

* * *

Mox was sitting exactly as Gimpy described him when Sefa got into the cabin. As if he were trying to roll himself into a tight little ball. Sefa wondered for a second if the kid thought that if he compressed himself tight enough in to that ball, if he'd start to disappear into himself. He walked over towards him, slow now, and talking in a calm and even voice. "Mox, what's wrong, Mox? What happened."

"I don't wanna," Mox said, his voice small and heavy with tears that remained unshed. "I'm not a baby. I don't wanna do that anymore, I don't want to wear them. Please don't make me wear them, Daddy. I don't care how long it is, I won't do it. I'll _make_ myself not do it."

Sefa frowned and looked at the closet. Wear something? The closet wasn't full of things to wear, it was full of extra supplies like toilet paper and towels and soap, and-"

His gaze fell on the green plastic packages. _Well, you wear those_ , he thought, and he grabbed a package and brought it down. "Is _this_ what's bugging you, Mox?"

Mox looked at the package, eyes shining. Sefa was sure he was going to start bawling, but instead he grabbed the package out of Sefa's hand and threw it across the room. "Please don't make me wear them! I'm not a baby!" Sefa wondered if the kid was still off someplace but he blinked several times and Sefa realized the kid _was_ seeing him. Not "Richard" or Sam or any of the other folks in his previous life, he was seeing Sefa. "Why do you have those?" he screamed, " _Why?"_ Nobody here _needs_ them! _Nobody._ You only need those if you are going to be locked up for a long, long, time and nobody is going to let you out of the box to go to the bathroom! I don't _want_ that! Please!"

Things clicked into Sefa's head and he sat down on the floor next to Mox. "Kid, these aren't for that. Nobody is going to take you on a long trip, or lock you in a basement for god knows how many days or whatever reason they gave you for making you wear these. I get it, Richard and Sam would lock you up for hours or even days when they traveled. And I'll bet they never bothered to take you out and let you use the bathroom, very often, if at all."

"S-sometimes if it was l-late at night and we found a r-really secluded place." Mox stammered. "But th-that wasn't o-often."

"Well, we keep them here, because sometimes, wrestlers are _stupid_." Sefa said, gently, moving closer to Mox, not touching him, just moving closer. "You're doing some weight lifting, right? I know we're staring you slow, but your getting the basic idea. And you know that if you go lifting heavy weights up over your head, a lot of muscles start straining. And, well, I don't give refunds. You want to come to one of the camp sessions? You pay in advance. And I don't care if you have an upset stomach , or some type of virus. You wanna lay in bed all day? Go for it. I got your money. So, there are times when guys keep going and ignore stomach problems. Also, sometimes the students, both the overnighters and the day only are just stupid as hell. There is a little hole in the wall Mexican restaurant not too far away. Sometimes they decide to go there. Excellent food, but it can leave you running a little lose. The disposable underwear? The students wear them if they're afraid they might… embarrass themselves while working out in the gym. Because nothing is more embarrassing than lifting two hundred pounds above your head and having your bowels let go. That's the _only_ reason why we have them here, Mox. Nobody is going to make you wear them. Unless, of course you decide you want to eat at Casa De Blowout yourself and do weightlifting the next day."

Mox looked at him, his eyes still a blur of tears, but he was coming back. Whatever dark hole seeing those adult diapers pushed him into, he was coming out of it. wary as an animal forced out of a hiding hole, but still, coming out was coming out. "My-my," He began, then swallowed. "Sometimes I had to wear the same one for days. And I would tell myself that If I could just… hold it, the whole time, I'd never have to wear one again. And I just couldn't. I would try and try and I just… I couldn't stop myself. And I hated it. It was humiliating. And sometimes m-my father was cool about it. Sometimes he would even say he was sorry, but most of the time, he _laughed_ at me. He told me I was a baby, shitting my pants."

Sefa reached out. "I want to touch your arm," he said, knowing that asking permission to touch him was really important right now. "I want to see how your skin feels." When Mox nodded, Sefa reached out and touched Mox's arm. It felt cold and clammy. "Okay, Mox, you've earned the rest of the day off. No arguments, I'm bringing you back to the house."

* * *

Mox allowed himself to be lead to the house, where Jen took over, once the situation was explained to her. The first thing she did was hand him some tissues and have him blow his nose several times. Then, she sent him upstairs to shower and change. Mox didn't talk, but he did nod. She listened at the bottom of the stairs until she heard the shower go on.

"I get the shower," Sefa said, when she came back into the kitchen. "But what's with the nose blowing?"

"The toilets were overflowing," Jen explained. "Considering what he had a breakdown about, I'm worried that smell helped trigger it. I didn't smell anything bad coming off of him, but clearing his nose and taking a shower, those things will help him feel clean again. When he's downstairs again, I'm going to give him some hot chocolate. Sugar and chocolate are good for shock."

"I'm glad I married someone who's good in a crisis," Sefa commented. "If it were me, I'd have given the kid a shot of whiskey."

* * *

That night, Sefa woke at two in the morning. As the day had been, the night, for Florida, was cool and dry and instead of using the air conditioner, windows had been opened. He could hear faint noises outside and his first thought was that Einstein hadn't come in that night and was now expressing his dismay for not being allowed to sleep with his pet, Lance. Then, he realized he could hear the squeaks of springs, the sounds of the covered cables the wrestlers called "ropes" being slammed into. He sat up in the bed, and twisted so he could look out the window. The overhead lights over the closest ring to the house were on, and he could see Mox, running the ropes. Even though the light wasn't perfect, he could see Mox was wearing just a pair of shorts and sneakers. His hair, his body, even the shorts he was wearing were wet with sweat.

"Something wrong?" Jen murmured.

"Sorry, did my moving wake you?" Sefa asked.

"No," Jen lied, yawning, then she heard the noise and looked at her husband. "What's going on?"

"Mox is running the ropes," Sefa said calmly. "And from the looks of him, he's been doing it for a long time."

"Do you think he's okay?" Jen asked. "I know he napped for a bit this afternoon, but should he really be out there this late at night?"

"Yeah," Sefa said calmly, still watching him, the way Mox moved back and forth, "He's not done yet."

"Done?" Jen asked. "When is someone _done_ running the ropes?"

"Around here?" Sefa said. "When I or one of the other trainers say so. But in this case, I know exactly when when Mox'll stop."

"When's that?" Jen asked.

"When he pukes," Sefa said.

"Why would he want to do that?" Jen asked, moving herself so she could look out the window and watch him. "I know it happens, to most wrestlers, but why would he want to deliberately set out to puke?"

"Because he needs to prove something to himself," Sefa said. "He needs to prove to himself that he can take it. That he's tough, that he can withstand anything. He needs to prove to himself that he's got what it takes to be a wrestler."


	12. Chapter 12

**I'm dedicating this chapter to a creature who could be both the biggest PITA you ever saw and totally awesome at the same time, because he was gifted like that. He was a cat. Never say, "Just a cat" to me about him, he wasn't just a cat. He was an _awesome_ cat. **

**Jesse James Edmond  
** **8/1/07 - 12/13/18.  
I'm sorry you didn't have longer, big guy. We're going to miss the hell out of you.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Twelve**_

Preparations for Thanksgiving in the Reign's house started a week before. The dining room was cleaned from top to bottom, the china and silver carefully hand washed and polished. There was no overnight training at the camp from that same day, until the beginning of January, so as well as getting the dining room ready, the cabins and the dining hall were scrubbed and cleaned within an inch of their lives, and repairs that had been put off would be done.

The amount of time Roman could help was limited because the Crusaders had made the playoffs. Lance was able to spare a little more time, because he only had school and homework to worry about. Mox got to help the most. He still had to do some GED studying, but he was allowed to cut back for the Holidays, so he spent most of his time helping with the house or the camp. He learned how to wash china by hand, how to polish silverware, and how to clean glasses so they didn't have any water spots.

In the camp, he learned how to operate a drill and how to hammer nails so they would not bend. He learned how to strip the finish off an older, wooden floor and resurface it in the cabins and dining hall. He learned how to take apart wrestling rings, inspect them for any weaknesses, fix said weaknesses and how to put them together again.

"That will be useful stuff when the day comes where you join a small promotion," Sefa explained. "The smaller promotions don't have a road crew, their opinion is that wrestlers are big, strong, folks, they can do it. It saves money, too, which sometimes means that wrestlers actually get paid."

"How do wrestlers survive at the beginning if they don't get paid?" Mox asked.

"They get regular jobs," Sefa explained. "They live as cheap as possible. A lot of them are bouncers or bartenders. You start out in the indies. You'll wrestle in High school gymnasiums, Bingo Halls, and parking lots. You hope you get noticed by one of the bigger promotions, you work those, and you can usually make a sort of living, but a lot of folks still keep that other job, just to be able to keep a steady roof over your head. Ultimately, you hope to make it big at the WWF, because they pretty much have the game sewn up, at least on the big time. That's when you can really support yourself and a family with wrestling. And get to be on the road over three hundred days a year." He paused and grinned at Mox. "Still think the life of a professional wrestler sounds glamorous?"

"I don't care if it's glamorous," Mox retorted. "If I wanted glamour, I'd become a runway model. I want to be a wrestler."

Sefa stared at Mox for almost thirty seconds, then nodded. "Some folks get it, some don't. Mox, you get it."

"Does that mean I've got _it?"_ Mox asked. That was something that was talked about a lot when Sefa, Marc or any of the other trainers discussed the students. Did they have _"It."_ Mox had wanted to ask what "It" was, but he didn't want to appear stupid. But, by listening to various conversations he started to figure out what "it" was. "It" was a blend of personality and wrestling skills that made the trainers think you had the ability to rise to the top. And you couldn't just have one of those things, you couldn't have great skills and a bad personality, you needed a good blend of both. In fact, the personality was more important than the skills. Wrestlers botched moves all the time, the trick was to have a personality so large and in charge that your botches were discussed and just as easily forgiven.

Sefa studied him again, even longer this time. "I don't normally tell my students until we're done training if I think they have 'it.' Because some folks actually make it high enough in the business without 'it' Sometimes they can join a stable and they prove to be perfect at being the background guy, the one who folds his arms over his chest and nods while the voice of the group or the manager talks. Some guys join a tag team and it all meshes together, and that's how they discover their niche in the business. They'll never rise to the top, but they'll do all right. I don't want to discourage anyone."

"I know I'm still training, but I'd like to know if you really think I have 'it?'" Mox asked, feeling his heart thumping so loud in his chest that he was afraid Sefa would hear it. "If I don't, that's okay, I'm still going to be a wrestler, I just know, don't set my sights on the very top."

"Yeah, you do," Sefa said. "I am _only_ telling you this because letting you know now will make you work twice as hard. You work hard to figure the moves, and you're figuring out who Mox the wrestler is, and I think Mox the wrestler will make it to the top, if he just believes he can."

Mox almost imagined that if it were nighttime, that anyone looking at him would see he was glowing from Sefa's praise.

* * *

The Monday before Thanksgiving, while Lance and Roman were in school, Mox helped set up a cot in the bedroom Roman and he shared. "I know it seems a little crowded now," Jen said, as she made up the cot with clean sheets and blankets, Mox helping by taking one side of the bed, while she took the other, "But my mother will be coming tomorrow, and we usually put her in Lance's room and Lance sleeps in here. It will only be until the Sunday after Thanksgiving. She usually leaves first thing Monday morning."

"I don't mind," Mox said, honestly. "As long as Roman and Lance don't mind." He looked about the room, realizing that the cot did make it seem a lot smaller. "I"m willing to sleep in the den, if Roman and Lance think the room is too crowded for three of us."

"They won't," Jen assured him, which made Mox wonder if she had already asked them about it.

* * *

That night at dinner, Marc offered that their grandmother could stay at his house, seeing that he had the extra bedrooms. "I don't mind," he said.

Mox looked around to see what Roman and Lance thought of this. Lance looked crestfallen, as if he had been looking forward to being allowed to sleep with the "older boys." Roman looked a little surprised as if he did not expect Marc to make such an offer. Jen shook her head.

"I don't think that's necessary," she said. "We've got the cot already set up and none of the boys mind sharing a room for a few day. Do you?" She looked from Roman, to Lance, to Mox, who all nodded in agreement that sharing a room would be fine.

"So don't worry, Bro," Roman said with a snort, "You don't have to be concerned that Grandma is going to... _block_ you."

Marc looked over at his brother and scowled "I wasn't worried about that."

" _Sure_ you weren't," Roman said, with an expression of amusement. "I mean, having to go almost a whole week without... certain things would be really hard on you."

"Roman," Jen warned looking over at Lance, then back to Roman with a meaningful expression on her face.

Lance shook his head. "Stop trying to spare me," he said. "I know that 'certain things' means sexual intercourse."

"We understand you're not a kid," Sefa said, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, "But how did you… come to the conclusion that's what goes on with Marc?"

"Because," Lance said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. "I have this _amazing_ thing, it's called _vision_. I see cars pull up in front of Marc's house in the evenings, and I see cars leaving in the morning and I see women getting in and out of said cars. I don't get why sex is such a big deal to people, but that's probably because I haven't hit puberty."

 _Well,_ Mox thought, _I_ have _hit puberty and I don't get why it is either_.

"Okay then," Sefa said, a faintly amused gleam in his eyes, "Could you do us all a favor and _not_ share that knowledge with your grandmother? She still thinks you're an innocent little boy. Marc too, for that matter."

At this, both Roman and Marc both gave an identical snorting laugh. "Uh, Dad, I think she got disillusioned from that notion with Lance, last Thanksgiving," Marc said.

"I'm surprised she didn't either disown the whole family, or try to kidnap you, Lance, and send you to a monastery." Roman said.

Lance rolled his eyes. "If she can't deal with honesty, that's not my problem."

"You _should_ have been a little more polite," Jen said, giving Lance a look of disapproval.

Confused, Mox spoke up. "What happened?"

Everyone started to speak, but Lance called above all of them. _"I'm_ the one who did it, _I_ get to tell what happened!" He looked at Mox. "We have this tradition in the family, that every Thanksgiving, we go around the table and say what we're thankful for. Grandma starts and I go last because I'm the youngest. So, last year, everyone does their thanks thing, you know, thankful we're all together, thankful the camp is doing well, thankful we have a huge turkey," At this, he paused and gave Roman a meaningful look.

"Hey, I love turkey," Roman said, shrugging. "And I'm pretty thankful there is a whole day devoted to eating turkey."

" _Anyway,"_ Lance continued, "They get to me and I say that I am thankful that my latest scans show no sign of cancer, thankful to Roman for donating his bone marrow to help keep me in remission, thankful to my medical team. I even say I am thankful to the WWF, because before we knew Roman was tested, my dad told a couple of the guys he knew in the WWF, and they convinced everyone in the WWF to get tested to see if they could be donors. Even Vince McMahone and his family were tested. None of them matched me, but most of them _stay_ on the registry, in case there _is_ someone they can be matched with."

"Why didn't you test Roman right away?" Mox asked. He wasn't the science expert Lance was, but even he could figure out that the best possibility for a bone marrow donor was likely to be someone closely related to the person who needed it. It just made sense.

"A lot of reasons," Sefa said.

"They were afraid if I wasn't able to donate I would feel bad," Roman said. "And if I could, and it didn't work, I'd feel responsible."

"We also weren't sure if you were old enough to make that choice," Jen said. "I know it wasn't the same as donating a kidney, but does a child have the capability to consent to having part of themselves removed, even if it is to save a sibling? And, we were holding out that somewhere else there would be a perfect donor. Your father even had half of Samoa getting tested. We weren't _forbidding_ you, we were just hoping we'd find someone else so you wouldn't have to make that choice."

"Yeah, but… you know, Lance is my _brother,_ and all." Roman said, and even though he smiled when he said it, Mox heard the bitterness behind it.

"So what happened?" Mox asked. "How did you end up getting tested?"

"I overheard my folks talking," Roman said. "The doctors said if a bone marrow donor could be found, it could be the difference between Lance surviving over five years or the AML coming back. They were talking about how a donor hadn't been found and I realized that _I_ hadn't been tested. I asked my folks if I could be tested. No, scratch that," he shook his head, his hair falling about his shoulders. "I _demanded_ I be tested. I mean, Lance is my _brother._ If he'd needed half my _brain_ , I would have donated it."

"Thankfully, it wasn't _that_ bad," Lance said. "We'd both be half as intelligent as you are now, which would make us both _really_ stupid."

"Oh?" Roman asked, brows arching. "I suppose you donated half your brain instead, we'd both be brilliant?"

Lance shrugged. "We'd probably both be at least of average intelligence. But, you can't split a brain. It's not like a liver, the other half won't grow back."

"Yeah, but you get the point," Roman said, rolling his eyes and looking at Mox. "So, I got tested and genetically, Lance and I are _almost_ as close as identical twins."

"And everything that could go wrong for the donor, did," Sefa said, shaking his head. "In cases like Lance's, a direct bone marrow transplant is best, which means instead of just taking out his blood, filtering out the T-cells and giving it back, they put him under anesthesia and took the marrow directly out of his hip bone and used the whole blood for Lance. Roman had a horrible reaction to the anesthesia, stopped breathing and had to be put on a respirator. When his body kicked in and decided he could breathe by himself, he woke up and tried to rip the breathing tube by himself and started trying to fight off the nurses before they could do it. We were coming to check on him, and I told him to let them do their job and he stopped."

 _"Told?_ " Jen said, shaking his head. "You _screamed_ at him. Everyone on the whole ward heard it."

"It _worked_ , didn't it?" Sefa pointed out. He looked back at Mox, "It's common to have some discomfort after such a procedure, but it's usually gone in a few days. With Roman, it lasted for a few months. And the injection site got infected, too, a one in a million shot, but it did. It was pretty bad."

"It could have been worse," Roman said quickly. "I'm okay, I just needed extra time to recover."

"It was bad enough that he couldn't play football that Fall," Lance said, looking guilty.

"So?" Roman shrugged, "your life is worth it."

Mox looked from Lance to Roman, their closeness making more sense to him. Roman teased Lance, but the teasing was gentle and it never went too far. Unlike Roman and Marc, who could shake the whole house when they really got going. Sometimes they even got to the point where they threw punches at each other. But Mox had never seen Roman and Lance hit each other. Mox had seen Roman excuse himself from the dinner table, saying he was going to get another glass of milk or water or something, and casually start walking towards the refrigerator, and quick as lightning, shove the back of Marc's head, so his face was pushed into his mashed potatoes. Roman claimed it was payback, for all the times Marc had done it to him when they were younger. But Mox had never seen Roman do anything like that to Lance or vice versa.

" _Anyway,"_ Lance said, "To get back to the original story of why Grandma hates me-"

"She doesn't _hate_ you," Jen interrupted. "She _loves_ you, she's just _disappointed."_

"Okay, she doesn't _hate_ me," Lance conceded. "I was saying that I was thankful to my doctors, to Roman, to my parents, and all of that. When I was done, Grandma said I forgot to thank God for all those things. I told her that I didn't believe in God anymore. That didn't go over very well."

"That's an understatement," Marc said with a snort. "Grandma was hoping that you surviving AML would make you decide to become a priest."

Lance shrugged. "She always hoped _one_ of us would become a priest. First it was you, Marc, which was stupid, considering being a priest means no sex. Then it was Roman, which almost makes sense. But then, because I survived, she really hoped it would be me. Hoped I'd get a 'calling' from God to enter the priesthood." He looked at Mox. "Be careful, her next target will probably be you."

"She won't want me to be a priest," Mox said, feeling fairly confident of that. _N_ _ot with the shit I've done._

"Well, don't try logic if she tries to push you on it," Lance suggested. "I tried that and she cried. I tried to tell her all my reasons for not believing in God anymore. I mean, I didn't just wake up one morning and go, 'hey, I think I'll stop believing in something I've believed in all my life!' I researched it and thought a lot about it, and realized that if God is real, he's either nothing like the bible claims he is, or he's horrible. Because God gets all the credit for good and none of the credit for bad. Like, I'm supposed to be all _grateful_ that God saved me from cancer, but I can't pin any of the blame _on_ God for my getting it in the first place. Or, hold him responsible if it comes back again."

"It's not exactly like that," Roman began.

"Yes, it _is,"_ Lance insisted, not letting Roman continue. "I'm willing to believe there might be a creator, but I don't believe he sits on a cloud and decides who lives, who dies, how many hairs I have on my head, or how many sparrows are around. If he's got that much power, he's abused it. Don't throw Satan in there, because supposedly, God is more powerful than Satan. So, yeah, Satan is just the scapegoat religious people use to explain the bad. And let's be honest, religion is a perfect way to control people. The Middle ages, when only the rich owned land and everyone else was just there to serve them. How do you get people not to rise up and revolt? Well, if it were me, I'd tell them they should be subservient. _'Blessed are the meek.'_ That being willing to always compromise was terrific, even if you were being stomped on. _'Blessed are the peacemakers.'_ And, that paying taxes is something you really should do willingly, because the government tells you so. _'Give unto Caesar.'_ The message is clear, "Be happy you're poor and miserable. Don't worry about bettering yourself, because your reward will be when you die!" Lance focused his gaze on Roman. "What are you going to do when you die and find out it's all bull, Rome? Come back and ask for a do-over?"

"What are _you_ going to do when you die and find out it's _not_?" Roman countered.

"I won't." Lance said with all the confidence in the world. "I don't have a soul. Nobody does. What we have is _energy_ and when we die, our energy goes out into the universe. living things die, but energy lives. Energy has no soul."

"We don't know that for sure," Roman said, "Maybe we haven't discovered that yet. And, without religion, people will end up thinking that they can do whatever they want. God is our reminder that we should be good to each other."

Lance fixed Roman with the most exasperated expression Mox had ever seen on the kid's face, and Lance had exasperation down to an art form. "I don't need some messed up version of Santa Clause for adults to tell me to be a good person," he said. "Some of the most atrocious and horrible things done to people have been done for the sake of some God or another. _You_ don't need a God to make you a good person, Roman. You didn't donate your bone marrow because you were afraid of some being who lives in the sky punishing you if you didn't. You did it because you're a good person."

"Well, that's because God _made_ me a good person." Roman argued.

"Oh? Mom and Dad had nothing to do with that?" Lance countered. "Or society? I've heard the whole, 'without religion we would be morally corrupt, and it's a weak argument. Do you _really_ believe that? As creatures of the world, we're pretty weak. We don't have strong teeth, or sharp claws. What we have are _brains_. _Brains_ told us to band together. _Brains_ told us to become a society. _Brains_ helped us to communicate with others so we could learn how to make tools. Being a society protected us. Being good to one another, being cooperative with each other, helped us not only survive, but rise above the enemies who were physically more powerful than us."

"Who _gave_ us those brains?" Roman asked.

"Evolution," Lance said flatly. "We started eating meat, that helped a lot. I know vegans say we didn't evolve to eat meat, but that's just wishful thinking. If people don't want to eat meat, I _totally_ respect and understand that, but we didn't evolve by _not_ eating meat. We probably didn't hunt at first, we scavenged. That moved into stealing food from other prey, then into us finding ways to hunt it ourselves. Meat doesn't need the work to digest that vegetables take. Meat allowed us free time to develop our brains. Our brains let us control fire, which allowed us to cook meat and cook vegetables. Cooked food is easier to digest, it's cleaner so less illness. It's our big, meat eating, fire cooking brains that allowed us to come up with ways so people who _don't_ want to eat meat can make that choice without suffering from malnutrition."

"There are lots of carnivores in this world, Lance. How come none of them-" Roman began, only to be interrupted by Jen.

"Stop it, _both_ of you!" she demanded. She looked at Lance. "I am trying my best to respect your right to _not_ believe," she said. "But in return, you have to respect the rights of others _to_ believe."

"I never said I didn't respect Roman's or your rights," Lance said. "But I don't respect Grandma's, because she won't respect mine. _She_ broke down, cried, and babbled in Italian about how I was doomed, so you and Dad told me I couldn't talk about it anymore. I wasn't even allowed to fully present my point of view. She cried and got upset, so she wins the argument."

"Not exactly, Lance," Sefa said. "Did you find your faith again?"

"No, but-"

"We're going to stop this conversation _right this second!"_ Jen starred at Lance. "We love you, Lance, but this is _not_ a conversation we need to be having, now."

"Okay," Lance said, shrugging. He looked at Mox, who had been watching and listening to this conversation in fascination. "You've gone to church with the family," he said. "Do you believe?" He looked quickly over at his mother. "I won't argue one way or another, I'm just curious."

Jen did not look happy, but she didn't tell Lance to retract the question, or tell Mox not to answer it. Mox stared down at his plate, as if he expected his meatloaf to answer for him. "Uh, I'm not sure," He finally said. "I'm new to this. I need to learn more."

Lance nodded. "That's an intelligent answer," he said, looking approving. "You're old and smart enough too, that you can decide for yourself. The problem is when you start telling children-"

"Lance!" Jen interrupted, with a warning look at her son.

Lance finally realized he had pushed it too far and closed his mouth. And while Mox admired him for his dedication to his convictions, he also realized Lance needed to learn restraint. For a moment, Mox pictured Lance getting this same argument with "Richard" and he shuddered to think of what would happen.

* * *

The next morning, Jen's mother, the infamous Grandmother arrived, shortly after Lance and Roman had left for school. She had driven up from Palm Springs in a silver Audi that looked brand new. Mox and Sefa had been working together on repainting the ring posts on the outside rings and saw her drive up to the house. "Gavriella is here," Sefa said, without a lot of enthusiasm.

Mox looked over at him. "Do you not like her?"

Sefa shook his head. "No, she's my mother in law and she's a very kind-hearted, generous person. But, she's set in her ways. And Lance is set in his. I think Lance gets his stubbornness from her and they bump heads because they're so much alike. If she says or does anything that irritates you, let it go if you can. If it's over the top, come and talk us."

"Does she know about me?" Mox asked.

Sefa looked at him, knowing that Mox meant more than his words said. "She knows you're a foster child and you're living with us," he said. "We told her that Roman brought you home and we found out you needed a foster home, so we stepped in. Roman did carry you into the house, so it's not a lie, we just skipped that you were kidnapped and tortured." He gave Mox a lopsided grin. "As far as she knows, your name has always been Jon Moxley."

"I'll bet she'll call me Jon," Mox said.

"I'm not taking that bet," Sefa said. "Ain't no sign that says 'stupid' tattooed across my forehead."

* * *

Mox and Sefa kept working until lunch time. They had cleaned up from painting and were heading to the house for lunch, Sefa told him he would train Mox for a few hours, _and_ give him some time in the weight room that afternoon.

"I'd love that," Mox said, his eyes shining. "Will be alright with Mom?" Sefa stared at him for such a long moment that Mox knew he had said or done something, but wasn't sure if it was good or bad. _What did I do?_

"Your _mom_ will probably not even notice," Sefa said, "She's probably busy enough with _her_ mom."

Mox knew then what he had said and he quickly slapped his hand over his mouth as if trying to catch the words and shove them back down his throat to unsay them. "I-I'm so used to hearing Roman, Lance and Marc call her that, I guess I just… slipped."

Sefa smiled. "Something tells me you can slip and call her 'mom' all the time and she won't mind. She might get all mushy and ask to give you a hug, but she won't mind. I won't mind if you slip up and call me, 'dad,' if you feel it's okay. I know the words father and dad might be harder for you, so I won't be offended if you call Jen, Mom and keep calling me, Sefa."

"Thank you," Mox said. Maybe he could call Sefa, Dad. He was getting to the point where he thought of the man he used to call his father more as "Richard" than "father." Maybe, if he could call Sefa, dad, it would help him get over Richard faster.

As they walked together towards the house, Sefa brought his arm up to put around Mox's shoulders, something he did often with his kids, but hesitated, to time for Mox to give permission. _Well,_ Mox thought, _this is something you've been thinking about. Maybe it's a good time to put this on the table too._ He gave a barely perceptible nod, giving Sefa permission. "If I'm going to be allowed to call you and Jen, Mom and Dad, then maybe we should just take this family stuff all the way and say that you don't have to ask permission to, like, put your arm on my shoulder, or for, Jen/Mom to put her hand over mine. I-I trust you. I-I trust all of you. I realize that when you guys touch me, you do it because you care."

Sefa grinned. "We're having a lot of breakthroughs today, aren't we?" Before Mox could answer, he continued. "I'm glad, but, you realize you need to step it back a bit, just let us know."

Overwhelmed, Mox looked away from Sefa. "I-I think I'll be okay with it, but thanks for the option."

* * *

When Jen introduced Mox to Gavriella, she stood up from her seat at the kitchen table and walked over to Mox. "So, _you'_ re the young man I've heard so much about. You can call me Nonna."

Mox blinked, not wanting to offend her, but not sure he was ready to call her by some name that probably meant Grandma. He bit his lip, hoping that he might be able to avoid having to use her name, and held out his hand, feeling proud of himself for offering this much. "It's nice to meet you."

She eschewed the offer of his hand, and instead wrapped her arms around him in a quick, hard, hug that startled him. He barely managed to fight his first reaction, which was to break from her grasp and tell her that nobody was allowed to touch him, but he fought it. He saw Sefa put his hand up to his forehead and shake his head in disbelief. Mox stiffly lifted his arms and returned his embrace with what was probably the most wooden hug since Pinocchio first hugged Geppetto. He heard a sharp sucking noise, and realized Jen had drawn in a hard breath.

The only person who didn't seem to sense this discomfort was Gavriella herself, who finally drew back, but put her hands on his forearms, to keep him from getting away and looked him over, head to toe. "You're so _skinny!"_ she proclaimed and looked at Jen. "Aren't you feeding him?"

"Of _course_ I am!" Jen said, sounding exasperated.

Mox tried not to get upset at her comment. He _had_ put on weight since he'd come here, and his doctors seemed quite pleased with his progress. And it wasn't much fat he was picking up either, it was _muscle._ He wasn't as buff as Roman, Marc, or most of the campers, but he was just starting out. "I eat real good," Mox said, nodding at Jen, "She's an awesome cook."

Gavriella was short and very thin herself, looking even thinner in a pair of black pants and a black blouse. She reminded Mox of a smaller, older, and more severe, Jen. Jen wore her long dark hair in a simple ponytail most of the time, tied back at the middle of the neck, giving her a soft look. Gavriella's long salt and pepper hair was pulled back so hard that it looked like it might be pulling her skin, and tied right at the base of the skull. If that wasn't enough, she also had it wound into such a tight bun that, that Mox suspected when she unpinned it at night, it sprang free and flew about her face in a dance of joy.

Gavriella barely nodded in acceptance of Mox's defense of her daughter. Instead she focused on _his_ hair. "Are you trying to be like Lance and Roman?" she asked, then looked over at Sefa, "What _is_ this obsession your boys have with long hair? I thought hippies were out of fashion."

Mox's hair was rather long, although not as long as Roman's or Lance's. It wasn't that he particularly wanted long hair, although, he did flirt with the idea of letting it grow longer and dying it some not-found-in-nature color, like sky blue, purple, or even pink, because it might be an interesting gimmick as a wrestler. But mostly, he hadn't gotten a haircut because no one had suggested one, knowing how he felt about being touched by strangers. Mox was sure they were waiting for him to say he wanted one. When he lived with Richard and Sam, they had cut his hair in some childish bowl style, to keep him looking younger than his age.

"Gav, we discussed Roman and Lance," Sefa said, "We don't need to go over it again."

"Yes, yes," Gavriella made a dismissive gesture hand motion, which meant she had to remove her hands from Mox's arms. He took advantage of the moment and stepped back from her. "Lance was bald and that was hard on him. It was hard on everyone, the poor dear, he even lost his lashes and eyebrows. But did that mean he can never cut his hair again? And Roman has to do the same?"

"Mother, Roman shaved his head because Lance hated being _the_ bald kid." Jen said in the weary voice of someone who had told the same person the same thing too many times. "They both agreed that they'd let it grow out when Lance's treatments were over."

"I'm shocked St. Anthony's allows Roman to wear his hair that long," Gavriella said. "I mean, I'm not surprised that _Lance's_ school does." She gave a dismissive sniff about the school Lance attended.

"St. Anthony's supports Roman's choice," Sefa said. "It isn't a problem, as long as he ties it back in classes. Lance's school is a wonderful private school for only the best and the brightest and he won a fully paid scholarship."

"Yes, but they only care about the _mind,"_ Gavriella said. "They don't nourish the _soul._ No wonder he no longer believes in God, going to a school like that!"

"Mother," Jen said, sounding like she was so weary of the word. "You have it backwards. Lance said he no longer believed in God, and we decided that he shouldn't be attending a Catholic Private school. St. Anthony's Elementary agreed. In fact, it was Father Steffon who helped get him into the Marion County school for gifted children."

"I don't know why Father Steffon was so willing," Gavriella said, with a dismissive sniff. "In _my_ day, they would have insisted a boy like Lance stayed in Catholic school and not given up until he came back to the faith!"

"You know how Lance is," Sefa said, looking over at Jen as if to say, _She really has to start this? Right now?_ "The harder you try to force him to do something, the harder he will resist."

"He's still a child," Gavriella said with both a sniff _and_ a dismissive wave of her hand. "You are his parents, you have control over him."

"Not over his mind, _Mother,"_ Jen said. "Lance will think what Lance will think. He's a good child and I believe the day will come where he realizes that there _is_ a God, and returns to the Church. In the meantime, Sefa and I agreed, we won't force him. If we force him, _Mother_ , we're going to push him away."

The way her voice rose on the word Mother made Mox's stomach hurt, like one of those balls of bad was starting to form. He knew Jen was more than annoyed, she felt she was being attacked and Mox could see why. He was terrified, but he decided that maybe he could help. He walked deliberately over to the kitchen table, sat down in his seat and spoke loudly. "I am _so_ hungry! What are we having for lunch?"

Jen flashed him grateful smile. "We're having soup and sandwiches!"

"Is it your beef vegetable soup?" Mox asked, still speaking louder than necessary, trying to sound casual, but to make sure Gavriella couldn't edge her way in and change the subject. "Because you know how much I _love_ your beef vegetable soup!"

"It sure is," Jen agreed, and her voice was just as bright and loud as Mox's was. The two of them probably sounded like idiots, or those people on TV commercial who talked way too enthusiastically about something really stupid, like the brand of shampoo they used. Jen turned to the stove, and began dishing soup into bowls.

It worked. Gavriella looked frustrated for a moment, but Sefa caught on and started asking about what type of sandwiches they were having, and it became a three way conversation about the joys of lunch.

Gavriella gave up and went to sit at the table. The moment there was a lull in the lunch talk, she spoke up. "Will Marc be joining us?"

Barely had she finished asking when Marc walked in the house, looking very fresh and clean. "Sorry I'm late, but I was sanding and stripping varnish off the dining hall tables, so I took a shower."

Gavriella rose from her chair and ran over to hug Marc. "Oh, who _cares_ how you look! I'm just _so_ glad to see you!"

"Thanks, Nonna," Marc returned her hug and winked towards his parents and Mox, letting them know that knew darned well his grandmother would have cared had he shown up covered with paint and sand grit. "But, I like to look my best for you."

"Oh you!" Gavriella gave him a mock slap as they drew apart and went to the table to sit down. "So, tell me, what have you been up to?" Before Marc could say a word she began rapid firing questions at him. "Are you still dating so much? Have you found anyone special? Are you going to settle down? You're such a fine young man, you should meet a nice girl and have children."

"Uh, yes, no, not yet, I'm glad you think so. I've met a lot of nice women, just not the absolute right woman, I wouldn't object to have kids one of these days, but only when I actually do meet the right woman and we get married." Before she could ask him any more questions, he continued. "How about you, Nonna? Are you dating anyone special?"

"Oh, how you _do_ go on," She rolled her eyes. "We all know your grandfather was the only man for me."

"I'm sure Grandpa wouldn't mind if you did some dating," Marc said, "he always called you Fiore più bello in giardino, I think he'd understand. It's hard to resist beautiful flowers."

Mox looked over at Jen, his expression puzzled. Quietly, she whispered to him, "It means the most beautiful flower in the garden in Italian."

Mox had pondered about Marc's popularity with women. Not that was envious, as far as he was concerned, he hoped he never attracted that type of attention. But it did puzzle him. Marc wasn't at all unattractive, but neither was he extremely attractive. He had a lot of muscle, but he also seemed pretty fond of eating. That wasn't bad, there were women who liked that whole "cuddly teddy bear" look. But nothing about his looks could explain why women flocked to him. Every time Mox had been in public with Marc, women recognized him and smiled, waved, or came over to talk. Young blond women, women with dark hair and eyes, women with red hair and freckles. Skinny women, perfect sized women, overweight women. Girls who looked barely of age, women who were close to Jen's age. When it came to women, Marc had some type of 'it' Mox wasn't familiar with. But, today at lunch, watching how Marc interacted with his grandmother, Mox began to see what Marc's _it_ was.

Marc _listened._ And it wasn't just listening with his ears, Marc seemed to listen with his whole _body_. He kept his gaze focused on his Grandmother, only looking away when needing to take a bite of his food. She would talk about things, and Marc would ask her questions. Even if it was the most boring thing in the world, like the group of women she played Bridge with. Mox had no clue what Bridge even was, but it sounded about as exciting as folding towels, and hearing about Gavriella's Bridge playing friends was about as exciting as listening to someone _talk_ about folding towels. But Marc asked questions and made comments that made it sound like there was nothing Marc looked forward to more, than hearing about his Grandmother playing Bridge.

Mox thought about how Marc was with the women wrestlers who came to the camp. Marc always seemed to be in charge of those groups, and Mox had observed how carefully Marc listened to them, but Mox thought it was because it was about wrestling. Now Mox suspected it was because Marc was just an awesome listener. And awesome listener that loved to listen to women.

* * *

After lunch he volunteered to help Jen with the dishes, telling Marc and Sefa he'd catch up with them. When Gavriella went upstairs to "rest for a bit." Mox looked at Jen. "Marc loves women, doesn't he?"

"Well, yes," Jen said dryly, "I thought you'd noticed that by now."

"No, I mean he really _loves_ them," Mox said. "It's different, even though the words are the same. Roman loves women, well, let's say young women. He likes to be seen with them, he likes to go out with them, there are things he likes to talk about with them, but there are a lot of times when he finds them boring." Mox recalled groups of both boys and girls, friends of Roman's coming over, and it seemed like eventually it ended up with the girls in one area, discussing clothing, and the boys in the other discussing Football. "I think Marc would be happy to listen to women talk about clothing, because he just loves women. He loves listening to them, he finds them interesting, and I think that's why women always want to be with him, because he listens and cares."

Jen had been washing out the pan that the soup had been cooked in when Mox had begun talking, but less than half way through, she had stopped, just looking at him. "Mox, that is a pretty remarkable observation," she said as she finished with the pan.

"Not really," Mox said, shrugging.

"Why do you say that?" Jen asked as she rinsed the now clean soup pan and handed it to Mox to dry.

"Because," Mox said as he accepted the pot and started drying it. "I know when I was growing up, if I'd met anyone who was really interested in _me_. Not what I could do, or what I could let them do to me, but was actually interested in me as a _person_ , I would have been willing to do anything they wanted."

"Oh Mox," Jen said, her eyes getting teary. "Can I give you a hug?"

Mox set the pot down and nodded. She wrapped her arms around him. "We _are_ interested in you, Mox," she said. " _All_ of us."

"I know," he said, not wanting to get too sentimental about this. "And uh, I told Sefa earlier, and I'm telling you… you don't have to ask if you want to hug me and stuff. Just you and the rest of the family. I guess even uh, your mother, because she doesn't seem to care either way."

"I hadn't had a chance to really warn her yet," Jen explained. "I will."

"Don't," Mox said. "I think I can handle it."

* * *

When the dishes were done, Mox went out to find Sefa and Marc at one of the outdoor rings. When Mox saw them, his mind started running through songs he knew, imagining one of them to be his theme music, something from AC/DC, like _Highway to Hell_ or _Dirty Deeds_. He ran down the slight hill to the ring as if it were an entry ramp, jumped up, slid under the ropes, to the center of the ring.

"Nice!" Sefa said, clapping. "Good entrance for what you had. Lots of energy, good slide."

"Thanks." Mox rolled to his feet as he had been taught, using his elbow and knee so the movement was fluid. He started running the ropes, loosening up his muscles. "So, what are you going to teach me today?"

"We'll get your workout done in the gym," Sefa said with a smile. "But right now, we're going to talk about Mox the wrestler for a bit."

Mox stopped running the ropes and walked over to Sefa. He and Mark were on the outside of the ring, leaning up onto the floor. Mox sat down cross legged across from them. "What about Mox the wrestler?" he asked.

"Well, to start with, do you want Moxley to be your wrestling name?" Sefa asked. "You've picked it as a real name, and if nothing comes along to tell us otherwise, that's the name you want on your license when you're ready to get one, right?"

Mox nodded.

"So, do you want it to be your wrestling name," Sefa asked. "There is nothing wrong with that, a lot of wrestlers have wrestled under their real names, but remember, a lot of wrestlers have personalities that are larger than life in the ring. Sometimes it's hard to put that down when it's time to go home for the night. It can be easier if your two names are different. In the old days of Kayfabe, you had to be your character as long as you were in public and for some folks, it was easier to also try to be that in private."

Mox nodded. Thanks to the wrestling magazines and other conversations with Sefa, he knew what Kayfabe meant and he was a little sad the tradition had ended. It might have been interesting to have lived in the days where if your promotion said you were playing a caveman, you'd better call yourself Oog, and never be seen outside your door in anything but a loincloth.

"What you have to decide is do you want to be Jon Moxley in the ring." Sefa said.

Mox shrugged. "I think Mox is a good name for a wrestler. So, can I be 'and in this corner, from Marion County Florida, Jon Moxley!' but that's about the _only_ time you hear my full name. Otherwise, I'm Mox. To the point where I'm backstage and someone is going, 'Jon! Jon!' and I ignore them, they don't exist, until they get exasperated and go, 'Mox!' _then_ I go, 'What the hell do you want?' Like, until they called me Mox, I didn't even know they were calling me. Does that make sense?"

"Perfect sense," Sefa said. "And we can start with that. In the indies, you can usually keep your wrestling name. It's when you get to WWF that they'll change it, because they want ownership of all the names used. Some guys change their name several times when they work the indies. A gimmick plays out, so they change their name to change their personality. So, for now at least, you're Mox." Now, what is Mox's motivation? Why does he keep wanting to go into the ring every night and hurt others who might hurt him, too?"

"Because I'm crazy as fuck," Mox said, and it was obvious he'd given this some thought. "I'm the guy you don't want to sneak up on, even if it's just an accident, because I will flip my shit and go after you." He looked at Sefa with a look that hoped made him look unhinged. "I want to keep a fork on me, and when someone is in the corner, I want to jab it into them, saying, 'Are you done yet? Are you done yet?' I want to freak people out. I want interviewers to say they refuse to interview me, just because they're terrified of what I will do to them." He realized what he could be implying and rushed to fix it, "Not that I'll ever do anything, uh... well.."

"Sexual?" Marc gently supplied.

Mox just nodded, grateful he wouldn't have to say the word. "I just have no _boundaries_ , you know? I might start sniffing their hair, because I like how it smells. It reminds me of…" He paused, "The inside of a bakery, or something stupid like that. They'll be afraid I'll might bite them, or get right in their face. I'm not afraid of anyone, even though I _should_ be. Bring me the meanest guy, bring on the guy who has crippled other wrestlers, I just ran out of fucks to give years ago and I'll fight _anyone_. Because I'm that good. I'm not saying I win all the time, that's boring. I'll get my ass handed to me a lot, but it doesn't phase me. I'm too insane to know when to quit."

Sefa nodded. "Yeah. In the local promos, the Indies and all such, that personality will go over great. People will remember you."

Mox's eyes were shining. He'd been learning moves and working out, and doing some promo work, even. But the way Sefa was talking, it was time to start putting all the pieces together that would form the wrestler that would be Mox. "Are you getting ready to let me fight in the Saturday Night shows?"

"Yes," Sefa said. "Not before Christmas. We don't really do shows then, because the students are mostly gone. But, when Christmas is over? I want to start you on the shows. Let's see if we can't make you our favorite lunatic."

Mox knew the first and biggest thing he'd be giving thanks for at Thanksgiving if he was called upon. He looked at Sefa and beamed.

* * *

 **Author's Notes** **: Not much to say here. Thank you to everyone who read this, reviewed, favored or followed. And, I'm sorry, I know this is a huge chapter. I'm sorry about that.**


	13. Chapter 13

_Thank you to everyone who left a review or sent me a private message about Jesse. Your kind words of sympathy are greatly appreciated. I'm sorry I didn't get back to some of you, it's just very... raw right now._

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen**

Mox would never admit it to either Lance or Gavriella, but he could see both sides of their religion debate. Lance _was_ reasonable in asking that he should be respected for his rights to not believe. But, on the other hand, his Grandmother couldn't see it as a simple choice, she saw it as something with dire consequences.

"I guess to really religious people, like Gavriella, it's like watching Lance drink poison. A very slow acting poison, but it will have some horrible consequences," he remarked to Sefa Wednesday morning as the two of them were doing more camp work together. Everything had been fine at dinner the night before and at breakfast that morning, but when Roman and Lance had left for school, which would be getting out early today for Thanksgiving, Gavriella had bemoaned Lance's lack of belief again, mentioning that if they couldn't bring Lance back to the fold, he'd end up in Hell. That's when Mox really understood. "And that's why the two of them are going to butt heads about it. Because Lance looks at this as his choice, based on logic. Gavriella sees it as Lance wants to go dancing in the middle of the road, while at any moment a truck could come out of nowhere and spatter him across the road. She believes Lance is going someplace bad for all eternity."

Sefa winced at the mental image Mox was putting into his head, but nodded. "Yeah, that's it. It's a good analogy. You're a bright kid, Mox."

"No," Mox disagreed. "If I was, my GED studying would be a lot further."

"Lance says you've finished reading _The Goblet of Fire_ and started reading Steinbeck," Sefa said, "That's high school level reading."

 _Of course Lance knows what I read,_ Mox thought, rolling his eyes. _Because his room is where all the books seem to end up._ Lance's room was crammed bookshelves that were crammed with books. There were piles of books in odd places in his room, too. If Mox wanted a story to read, he went to Lance's room. This meant that Lance was pretty much in the know on everything Mox read. "Steinbeck is easier to read than _the Goblet of Fire,_ in a lot of ways," Mox said. "He uses smaller words and he tells simpler stories. I like Rowlings, she writes some good stuff, but I feel like I need to take notes so I get all the subplots. Steinbeck just tells it like it is, or was in whatever time he's writing about. _Cannery Row_ doesn't even seem to have a plot, it's just a about these guy and the stuff they do. It's more about getting to know _people_ than to see that whole conflict and resolution thing."

Sefa looked at him for a long time. They were in one of the overnight cabins, looking over the steel framed bunks, to check for damages. So far, nothing had been discovered that was deemed in need of repair. "Mox," he finally began, "think for a moment; when you came to us, you could barely read. And the fact that you could read at all, was pretty amazing. But you struggled with _wrestling_ magazines. Now you're reading books almost every other High School kid is reading. That's pretty amazing from where I stand. You're catching up faster than most kids would."

"I wish I could say the same about the other stuff, math in particular." Mox sighed, as he dropped to his back on the floor and slid under a lower bunk to study the frame on the bottom for problems. "Reading, can be fun, at least. Math is boring, unless you happen to be Lance." He heard Sefa chuckle.

"Math is practical," Sefa said. "It's handy. You already know more math than you think you do. But practical can often be boring, I agree. I've seen you asking Lance for help with that, is that working out?"

"Yeah," Mox said, tugging on a spring to make sure it was still moving freely, not bound up by rust. "I might need some WD40 for this spring." There was a soft thud as Sefa put a small can down on the floor. Mox grabbed it and started shaking it.

Mox wasn't sure he wanted to admit it, but of the entire family, when it came to being taught academics, Lance was by far the best family member to ask. Sefa and Marc were good for learning wrestling, which was the most important thing, but also for learning how to fix things and how to work with tools. Jen was good for learning the practical things, like how to throw all your socks in a mesh bag before you did the laundry, so you never had a lost sock, but if he asked her for help on school work, he always got the feeling that she was bothered he never had a chance to go to school and asking for help with homework, made her feel bad.

Roman? Well, he knew Roman would be cool and try to help him however he could, but sometimes Roman could be just too _Roman._ Mox knew he would be happy to help, but his brows would furrow and he'd get that solemn look on his face, like this was the most important thing in the world, and he was pondering deep thoughts to figure out the one, perfect way to teach Mox how to deal with fractions. It wouldn't matter what he'd been doing before, Mox needed his help and being Roman Reigns, he was going to leap on that white horse and rescue Mox from the horrors working with partial numbers. It wasn't like Roman realized he was coming across like that. He was great at joking around and having fun, but there was this _intensity_ about him, when confronted with a problem and that, combined with his good looks, made him appear more as benevolent messiah when he was helping, rather than just a dude doing another dude a favor. _"Yes, My son, I shall help you with your fractions, for to me, all troubles are equal. Your fractions are the same in my eyes as world hunger, or nuclear war."_

This left Lance as the default, but Mox had the feeling that even if Roman had been more casual about it, he still would have ended up with Lance. Some might think Lance would be the worst choice, that he'd be arrogant about it, because he was so smart, but instead, Lance seemed flattered that Mox was asking for help.

Mox knew Lance, for all his intelligence, lacked in wisdom. If Lance had thought Mox was as stupid as Mox sometimes thought he was? Lance would have no problems telling him. He was much more likely to look at Mox's homework and go, "Oh, that's simple, let me show you." Often, he was right too, what Mox thought was a complicated problem, Lance would show him was a simple matter of breaking it into steps. Do A, B, C, D, and E. The key, Lance told him, was not to worry about step B until step A was done.

Mox started to realize that was actually a good way to look at life in general. If the problem was huge, break it into manageable bits. Mox compared it to that, "Big ball of Happy" Lance had told him about. Apparently most of life worked that way, when confronted with what seemed impossible, break it into smaller bits that you could handle, until the ball of issue was gone.

"I wish I was smart enough to be able to take my GED early, and that I _could_ take it early," Mox mumbled, as he sprayed the spring with WD40, and wiped the excess away with a rag. None of the bunks had mattresses on them, those were outside now, airing in the sun. They would be brought in at night, or if there was any hint of rain later. After a few days of being aired, they were all zippered into heavy duty coverings that were waterproof and bed bug proof on the inside.

"You _are_ smart enough to take it sooner, and if you keep working on it like you are, you'll be ready to take it before you're eighteen," Sefa commented and Mox could tell he was on the other side of the room, checking out those bunks. "And we might even be able to get them to _let_ you take it when you're ready, even if you're not eighteen."

"Really?" Mox gave the spring a few more tugs to make sure it moved smoothly, then slid out from under the bed. "I thought you had to be eighteen."

"I thought so too, but I was wrong," Sefa said, accepting the can of lubricant back from Mox, and shoving it into the tool belt he was wearing. "As it turns out, in the State of Florida, at least, if your school gives you permission, you can take the test at sixteen or seventeen."

"But, I have no school," Mox pointed out. He'd walked over to where he had been and slid under another bottom bunk to inspect that one.

"Actually, you do," Sefa said. "Since you _are_ under eighteen, haven't graduated from High School and reside in this town, the local public High School is 'your' school."

"How are we getting around that?" Mox asked, as he inspected the springs. "Because the last time I checked, that public school bus rolls right by the house every morning and doesn't stop for me."

"You're being home schooled," Sefa said. "But that school is still 'your' school. If you wanted to play football, you could go down and try out for the team. If you wanted to attend the Jr. Prom or participate any school activities, you could. And, if you feel you're ready before you're eighteen, we might be able to get the school to let you take it early."

"Do you think they'll let me?" Mox asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. _Like I have a chance in hell of being able to catch up and learn that much before I'm eighteen. And I sure hope Dad doesn't think I want to play football or go to the Prom. Screw that._

"Ms. Clarke thinks you have a good chance," Sefa said. "And speaking of before you're eighteen, you mentioned once that you were pretty sure you were born in December. Can remember the date?"

"Nope," Mox said, tugging more springs to check them. "We might have a loose spring over here. Last guy who slept here was pretty heavy if I remember."

"Yeah, a lot of muscle on that guy," Sefa said, nodding. "These bunks are made extra heavy duty, but even the heaviest spring doesn't last forever. Since you can't remember, pick a date."

"Okay," Mox said, shrugging, listening to the noises of Sefa pulling out a small notebook and making notes of the bunk number Mox was inspecting. "Is there any date I _shouldn't_ pick?"

"I wouldn't pick Christmas if I were you," Sefa suggested. "Your birthday will get lost in the Christmas shuffle."

 _How can a day get lost?_ Mox wondered, then remembered something Roman talked about and shuddered. "Uh, you guys weren't going to throw me a Surprise party, were you?"

"Well, maybe, but we obviously can't _now,_ " Sefa said and Mox could hear the smile in his voice. "But, we might want to have a cake or something. Just to mark the occasion. Jen might even want to make your favorite meal or something."

"Stuffed pork chops with apple glaze?" Mox asked, hopefully.

"Good chance of that, but you need to pick a date."

"If Mom is going to make a meal and a cake, maybe she should pick it," Mox suggested. "She's the one that's going to have to go to all the trouble."

"Nope, that's up to you," Sefa said. "My advice is stick to the beginning of the month, when Thanksgiving is over, but the Christmas season isn't insane yet."

Mox thought about it as he pulled on springs making sure there was only one on this bunk that would need further work, and slid out from under the cot. He was about ready to suggest the fifth, for absolutely no reason at all, then another number flashed in his head and he found himself blurting out, "December 7th."

Sefa looked at him. "You said that with a lot of finality. Do you think that might be the real date?"

"No," Mox quickly lied. He was pretty sure it was, but he was suddenly cautious of giving information that might lead to finding out who he was before he'd been taken. He was Jon, "call me Mox," Moxley. And he wanted to _stay_ Mox. He wanted to stay with the Reigns and become a wrestler. _Aw, Christ, I hope I didn't make a mistake,_ he thought, looking at Sefa for any sign that Sefa was skeptical.

Sefa looked at him for a little longer than made Mox comfortable, then slowly nodded. "December 7th is as good a date as any, that's what we'll make it, then."

* * *

Right after dinner, Lance had gone to the room and sat on his cot. Einstein joined him, laying on his pillow and purring. His laptop was open and running, but he wasn't really looking at it, instead, he was fuming.

The door to the room was open, and Mox appeared in the doorway. "Hey, any chance you can help me with my homework?" He was holding some paper in his hand. "I mean, if you're not doing _your_ homework," he added, pointing to the laptop.

"Nah, I'm just messing around on the web," Lance said, sliding up closer to the top of the bed, to allow Mox to sit down near the foot. "I can help you." He reached around to pet Einstein on the pillow, which made the cat purr even louder.

"Thanks." Mox sat down where Lance indicated. He handed Lance the papers and Lance handed him the laptop, so Mox could do his assignment online and submit it when they were finished.

They worked on Mox's homework for about an hour, Lance playing the role of teacher, which he liked. Mox didn't seem to mind that Lance was smart, unlike a lot of people who were older, who seemed to want Lance to be stupid.

When Mox's homework was finished and turned in, he handed Lance back his laptop and looked for a moment like he was going to get up, then stopped and stayed where he was. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," Lance said, "Why?" Einstein sat up on the pillow, blinking, then walked over and flopped against Lance's thigh, looking at Mox with his eyes half closed.

Mox shrugged as he reached over to give Einstein a scratch to the cheek, that the cat accepted with obvious pleasure. "You looked pissed when I came in, and you _never_ look pissed when you're on a computer. Did it have anything to do with your Grandmother?"

Lance sighed. There might be a lot of stuff Mox didn't know, like school stuff, but when it came to people's moods, he was really good. "I _really_ wish Nonna would leave the whole religious thing alone." Earlier, when the family had been eating dessert, Nonna had asked him if he was going to attend Mass the next day with the rest of the family, or if someone would have to stay home and watch out for him. Lance knew it was just an excuse to get upset that he was an agnostic. "She just won't let up on it!"

"She whined to the parents about it when I first met her and she whined about it again when you left for school today," Mox said, nodding. "I felt sorry Mom and Dad."

"Yeah," Lance said, not surprised to hear Nonna had been going on about it behind his back. "And then tonight at dinner, she rode me about it, _again._ "

Mox's brow furrowed as if trying to remember, then he shook his head. "No, she didn't."

Now Lance felt his own brow furrow, and he looked at Mox. "Yes, she did. The whole, 'Are you going to Mass tomorrow' thing."

"Nope," Mox shook his head. "That wasn't getting on your case about religion, it was asking if you were going to attend Mass. I didn't hear anything about your soul being in peril or how you ought to start believing."

"It's the same _thing,_ " Lance said, a little exasperated. As if he could sense his pet human was in distress, Einstein stood up and started rubbing along Lance's side.

"No it's not," Mox disagreed. "I'll bet there will be lots of people tomorrow at Mass who don't believe."

"Why would you bother to go to Mass if you don't believe?" Lance put his hand out so Einstein could smash his skull into the palm.

"Because they're doing it as a family, because the music is beautiful," Mox said, shrugging. "Because when the light shines through the stained glass it looks really pretty, or, because if you're a member in good standing, they give you snacks."

"Snacks?" Lance said, puzzled for a moment, then laughed. "Are you talking about the Eucharist?"

"Is that what it's called?" Mox asked. "The juice and cookie thing? Eu-char-ist?"

"Yeah," Lance said, laughing again. "The 'cookie' is supposed to be the body. The 'grape juice' is the blood of Christ."

"Jesus had purple, grape, flavored blood?" Mox asked. "And they still _have_ some of it around?"

"Now you're deliberately being dense," Lance said, shaking his head and laughing. "In the old days, they used red wine, and some churches still do. The first communion ever performed at the last supper, the belief is that Jesus offered his disciples bread and wine, saying the wine was his blood and the bread was his body."

" _That's_ not weird," Mox said with a snort. "Eat me! Drink me!"

"Exactly," Lance agreed. "But you have to believe in order to take communion. I don't believe."

"Well, your parents and Nonna might get upset if you take communion," Mox concluded. "So, you might not want to do the zombie-slash-vampire thing tomorrow. But, if there is no God and nobody was there who knew you didn't believe, you could probably eat the snacks and no one would know. So, does catholically-"

"Catho _licism_ ," Lance interrupted to correct.

"Okay, does _Catholicism_ , forbid non believers to come to Mass, to listen to the music, or look at the stained glass windows?" Mox asked.

"No, of course not," Lance said, then narrowed his eyes at Mox. "I see what you're doing. You're saying that Nonna just asked me if I was going to Mass, not if I believed. But you know that she's hoping I'll go and have an epiphany, falling to my knees, begging God, Jesus, and the Blessed Mother for forgiveness."

"Yeah, but that isn't what she _asked_ you," Mox said. "She _aske_ d if you were going. You don't _have_ to have an epiphany."

"I'm not _going_ to have an epiphany, even if they chain me in there for a year," Lance said, powering down his laptop while still stroking Einstein. "I don't believe in God. I believe their might be a creator, but I don't believe in _Bible_ God."

"Then what's the harm of going?" Mox asked, shrugging. "It would make your Grandmother and everyone else in your family happy. They might _hope_ for an epiphany, but I don't think they're expecting one."

"What do you think they _expect_ to happen?" Lance asked.

"That it will give you something to think about. They just want you to go with them, so the family can all do something together and maybe, just maybe, a tiny thought will enter that huge brain of yours. Even though it'll be lost in the nine hundred billion other thoughts your brain has, every second, this one tiny thought will hide in your brain. Maybe, you'll go to Christmas Mass too, to be part of the family, and another thought will join that one. If you go to several holiday Masses, all those tiny thoughts will become a big though and you'll come back to the church."

Lance wanted to be irked at Mox's whole analogy, but it was also a little funny, thinking of tiny thoughts hiding out in the sulci and gyri. He smiled, then scowled. "Why can't everyone just accept that I _don't_ believe?"

"Why can't _you_ accept that they _want_ you to believe?" Mox asked, his voice casual as if he were asking if Lance might want an M&M or something.

Lance stared at him in disbelief. "It's not the same thing!" he protested. _"I'm_ in control of my own mind. I'm not asking _them_ to give up what they hold sacred, I'm just asking that they respect my rights to not believe. I could be a whole lot more obnoxious about what they believe, trust me. I mean, I could talk about how communion is symbolic cannibalism or that the idea of a virgin birth came way before the New Testament. That, _most_ of the bible is based on earlier religions, taking a bit from this and a piece of that. And don't even get me-"

"-I got it!" Mox interrupted, holding up his hands in a universal, 'Stop' gesture. "You have every reason in the world not to believe. I get it. It's cool. But they don't see it as a choice. They see it as if you die, you're going to end up in this miserable place for the rest of eternity. And they'll be in this great place, and you won't be there."

"That shouldn't matter," Lance mumbled, looking down at his laptop, which he'd folded shut after he had powered it down. "If you believe in all that Heaven crap, you can't be unhappy in Heaven. That's one of the many reasons I think it's all a bunch of crap. How can you be constantly happy? If everything is perfect, you'd be _bored,_ and you can't-"

"-Lance, again, you don't have to convince me why _you_ don't believe," Mox said. "I _get_ it. I don't know if _I_ believe or not. I know I'll never believe like Roman does. Or Mom, or Marc. I can see why you feel you can't believe. But I _also_ know, because I've talked to Roman, that you can throw as many arguments against God, Jesus, and Casper as-"

"Casper?" Lance interrupted, then laughed. "The Holy Ghost! I called _you_ Casper when we met, because you were so pale you looked like a ghost!"

Mox shrugged and continued, "You can give Roman all those arguments and they won't do any good. It doesn't matter how full of facts they are. Instead, the harder you try to tell Roman that it's all made up, the harder he believes. He says that's the whole point of faith, to believe completely in that which cannot be proven."

Lance rolled his eyes. "I don't know why Nonna didn't want _him_ to be a priest, he'd be perfect." Einstein crawled on top of the laptop and started bumping his head into Lance's chin.

Mox again, shrugged, but refused to be sidetracked. "The more you tell Roman it's fake, the more he's going to say it isn't. You can't stop him. He believes so he's going to want _you_ to believe. He's not going to change his mind. If he got as sick as you were, it would make his belief stronger. And all the believers in your family want you to believe because _they_ think this life we have is just the first step on the journey, and if you don't make the right step, you'll end up in Hell. You, on the other hand, know that one life is all you get. And you know your one shot might be a lot shorter than theirs, so why waste it arguing about going to Mass on Holidays?"

Lance felt his mouth gape open, as if he were some wide mouth bass, and knew he must look pretty stupid, but he couldn't help it. Mox _got_ it. Mox got more than why he rejected religion, Mox got something that only one other person Lance knew that didn't have cancer got. Mox understood that Lance knew his number could come up at any time. His remission could end and there would be nothing that could be done. Lance knew it, he accepted it, and Mox knew he had.

Lance didn't want to die, he wanted to grow up and be a wrestler or a scientist. But he understood he might not get that chance. Most people, his own family especially, didn't want to talk about it. Lance _wanted_ to talk about it. Lance wanted his folks to understand that he wanted his body donated to science. He wanted them to promise to take good care of Einstein. He knew they would, but he wanted to hear it from their mouths. He wanted them to tell him _they_ understood that he might die.

But that was never going to happen. Every time he tried to bring up the subject to anyone but a fellow cancer sufferer, they told him to stop being so negative. With his family, he knew it was because they didn't want to face reality, that they were likely to outlive him. Other people, he thought were so scared of their own death, that talking to Lance about his freaked them out. So, they spouted crap about how a positive attitude was the key to getting and staying better.

Lance knew that a positive attitude wasn't worth a damn when it came to cancer. He'd met kids that were morose about dying that managed to get through treatment and go into full remission. He'd known other kids that had been optimistic up to when they took their last breath. Lance liked to think he was realistic about it. He wasn't a wide eyed optimist or a weepy emo kid. He knew his chances, he knew the facts and he wanted to be realistic and practical about this, but it was hard when no one wanted to ever discuss it.

It was always, "not now," and never, "now."

Yet here was Mox, who was Roman's age and he was even _family_ , but he was able to talk about Lance dying realistically. As if Mox understood that Lance had accepted it, and therefore, he should too. "Doesn't it bother you that I could die before I even hit puberty?" he asked, eyeing Mox as if wondering if he was trying to trick him.

"Sure it does," Mox said. "Let's face it, if you die, everyone in this house is going to fall apart. Like, _really_ fall apart. I'll probably be the one that has to take care of them, and that will suck, because I'll be pretty upset too, but having not known you as long, I'll think I'm obligated to be the one to help them. I'll know that while your family mourns for all the time they _wished_ they could have had you, I'll mourn for that, and for all the time I _didn't_ have with you. They got to know you nine whole years before I did. Now I have to adjust to a world without Lance Reigns, which not only won't be as good, but I won't be able to have those nine years _they_ did."

"I-I'm not used to people who can talk about my dying like that," Lance admitted. "You're the second person I've met who didn't freak out about it. Do you want to know who the first one was?"

"Who?"

"Undertaker," Lance said. "Or, Uncle Mark, as Roman, and I call him, so we don't confuse him with our brother, Marc when he visits. But it's weirdly coincidental, isn't it? The Deadman understands."

"Sometimes things work out exactly as they are supposed to," Mox said, stretching his arms behind him and leaning on them.

Mox was wearing one of those old Bret Hart shirts their mom had given him when he first got here, probably one of Roman's old shirts or a shirt left from another wrestler at camp, but Lance noticed it was fitting tighter on him now, which was good, because Mox had been too skinny when they first met. There were times when Lance wondered if he had cancer and didn't know it. Lymphoma could cause unexplained weight loss. Then he found out Mox hadn't been given enough food to eat, and while that sucked, it was a lot better than cancer.

Lance nodded. "Uncle Mark is super cool. Someday you'll meet him, and I think you'll like him." Einstein had gone back to laying down on the laptop, and Lance stroked him along his back.

" _Like_ him?" Mox shook his head. "He's one of the Gods of Wrestling, if not the _top_ God. I am already in complete and _awe_ of him."

Lance sighed as if frustrated, but grinned. "His _persona_ is a God of Wrestling, but I'm talking about the person who _plays_ Undertaker. Uncle Mark is cool."

Mox nodded, then went back to the original conversation. "Lance, if you want to talk about dying to me, go ahead. I don't want you to die, but I get that facing your own mortality is a pretty huge deal and you might need to discuss it." Mox said, his voice neutral. "So, I'm here."

Lance nodded, but refused to say anything, because he was afraid he might start crying and that would be embarrassing.

* * *

Thanksgiving morning, Roman wasn't at all surprised when Lance disappeared after breakfast and could almost feel sorry for his little brother, it was rough going against the rest of the family, especially considering even Mox was going to Mass that morning.

There was an issue about how they were going to get to St. Anthony's. "I'm willing to drive Marc's, Mom's or Dad's car if someone wants to ride with me," Roman suggested. "I need more driving time if I'm going to get my license over break."

"I think we can all fit in the SUV," Sefa said.

"Not _comfortably_ ," Roman muttered. Technically, the SUV sat six, but the third row was pretty tight. His Grandmother would probably be comfortable enough, but she wouldn't want to ride in the far back, feeling that she should be either shotgun or in the second row. _Great, they'll probably age default it, so Mox and I will end up sucking our kneecaps._ The SUV was _so_ old and while the engine kept it running, the body left a lot to be desired. The third row, after so many years of taking the family and students around, had somehow become welded to the floor.

"Oh, we can manage," his mother said, trying to sound breezy, but Roman knew she was thinking about the discomfort level as well, and probably wishing, like Roman did, that they would just break down and buy another one. "It's not like we're strangers, and we've all bathed recently!"

"It would be a whole lot easier if we just took two vehicles," Roman said, making one last stab at changing his father's mind. "This way, whoever wants to leave the moment Mass is over, can, and those who want to socialize can stay."

"Nah," Sefa shook his head. "We'll manage, you'll see." Roman never understood why his father could be so stubborn about things like this. What difference would it make to take another vehicle?

"You might want to reconsider that, Dad," Lance said, walking into the kitchen. He was wearing a pair of dress slacks and a button down oxford shirt, his hair pulled back off of his face in a ponytail, and his good shoes were shined up.

There was a moment of stunned silence as everyone in the room stared at Lance as if he were a shy, wild, animal, that the slightest noise might send him running for the hills. Everyone, that was, but Mox, Roman noticed.

"What?" Lance finally said, looking defensive. "We might as well do this as a family," he said, shifting from one foot to another. "I mean, it's just Thanksgiving Mass, and just because I don't _believe_ , anymore, doesn't mean I can't go to Church with you. It's not like I'm going to burst into _flames_ or anything. Can you just stop staring at me?"

Gavriella reached into her pocketbook and drew out a set of keys, which she tossed to Roman. "You and Marc can take my car," she said. "And yes, you can drive it, Roman, just don't drive too fast. Marc, you keep an eye on him, make sure he obeys the laws."

 _Nonna's Audi is pretty slick_ , Roman thought, as he took the keys. "Thank you, Nonna, I'll be so good you'll think I'm Marc driving at night."

"Hey!" Marc protested.

"That's all I can ask for," Gavriella said.

* * *

It was decided to leave the SUV at home make use of Jen's Honda instead. Gavriella volunteered to sit in the backseat with Lance, who rolled his eyes, but not when she could see him. Mox tagged along with Marc and Roman. the Audi's back seat was small, but having it all to himself made it tolerable. He sat at a bit of an angle, putting his feet on the floor on the other side.

When they were settled in the car, seat belts on, and driving down the road, Roman looked through the rear view mirror and caught Mox's gaze. "How did you do it, Mox?" he asked.

"Do what?" Mox asked, hoping he sounded puzzled.

"Don't be stupid," Roman said. Marc looked at his brother, in confusion. "When I went to bed last night, Mox and Lance were sitting on his cot talking," Roman explained.

"Talking about _wrestling,"_ Mox said. The conversation about the Undertaker had lead to discussions about other wrestlers Lance had met, which was pretty much, "All of them." Lance had some good stories. "It's not _hard_ to get Lance to talk about wrestling. He wants to be one."

"That's not what I mean," Roman said. "How did you talk him into coming to Mass today?"

"Me?" Mox did his best to look on the border of exasperated and irritated. "Why would I want to talk him into that? I'm one of the two people in the house that respect his right to not believe. Why would I waste _my_ time trying to talk him into coming today?"

"I don't know _why_ you did it," Roman admitted, "But I _know_ it was you, because when Nonna asked him at dinner last night, I knew he wouldn't even _consider_ going. Today he's all in his dress clothes and coming along. The last person he spoke to alone was you. So, how did you do it?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Mox lied, looking out the window. "Marc, did you talk to him? Maybe text with him and convince him?"

Marc shook his head. "Not me, Bro,I know how stubborn Lance can be when he believes he's right."

"Yeah, I figured that out, too," Mox said. "Which is why I'd never try. Not over this, at least."

"You can claim you had nothing to do with it all you want," Roman said, shaking his head. "But you're not fooling me. You _did_ something."

"You're crazy," Mox said. "Ask him yourself if you're so curious." Mox hadn't specifically told Lance not to mention they had talked about it, but Mox was pretty sure Lance would keep the conversation private.

"No way!" Roman shook his head so sharply, his ponytail flipped over one shoulder. He pushed it back behind him with a flick of his wrist "If I ask him, he'll flip out and never go again."

"Maybe it's just a Thanksgiving Miracle." Mox suggested.

"All right," Roman relented. "We'll just say it's a miracle. But, I suspect the 'miracle' is sitting in the back seat, and his name is Mox."

* * *

 **Authors Notes : Thank you to everyone who read, F/F's and especially those who reviewed. It means a lot to me. Happy Winter Holidays to all of you. **


	14. Chapter 14

_Hey, Pest! Don't give me a hard time for updating on Sunday! I gave you a story on Christmas, so I decided to hold off posting this chapter until Sunday. One word and I'll be forced to distract you with cute pictures of Kismet!_

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen**

It was ten days between Thanksgiving and Mox's birthday. And while Mox would have been happy to just get those apple glazed, baked, stuffed, pork chops for dinner, his birthday turned out to be a whole lot more.

It started with breakfast, and even though it was Friday, in honor of Mox's birthday, Jen made cinnamon rolls. Mox was one of the later ones to the table, because he had let Roman use the bathroom first, but because it was his birthday, he _still_ got two. And unlike the first morning he'd tried them, he ate all of both of them. Along with scrambled eggs and sausage and wonder of wonders, two cups of _coffee!_ He had almost forgotten about the "No coffee until you're sixteen," rule, and started thinking it was a "no coffee at all" rule, But, as he sat at his seat, he saw something new at his place setting, a heavy black mug with the words Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy on one side in white letters and on the other side, the word "MOX" all written out in caps in red letters on the other. He picked it up and looked at it, then put it down slowly. Jen came over and filled it with coffee. "Happy Birthday, Jon," she said.

"That's a staff mug," Sefa explained. "And since you work here, _and_ you're old enough to drink coffee, you might as well have a staff mug to drink it in."

"Just try not to get too carried away with the coffee drinking," Jen said, her voice wavering, clearly not wanting to rain on the parade, but still feeling the need to be his mother. "I know you used to drink a lot of coffee… before, but you haven't been drinking it since you came here, and it's probably best not to get to a ten cup a day habit."

"I'll do my best to keep it under control, Mom," Mox promised as he brought the cup up to his nose, enjoying the dark, fragrant, aroma. Coffee was an _amazing_ beverage. It smelled completely different than it tasted, but both smell and taste were delicious. Taste took a little longer to appreciate than scent, but once you did, the scent became even better as your mouth anticipated the taste. And there was something wonderful about being able to drink it openly at the table. In truth, there were more times when he missed drinking coffee openly, then he missed being able to drink beer or do other drugs.

If that wasn't enough, after breakfast was finished, but before Roman and Lance had to leave for school, Jen went into the dining room and returned with a thin, rectangular box wrapped in some slick, shiny paper, mostly black, but with drawings of very brightly colored balloons. "Happy Birthday, Jon!" she said, handing it to him

Mox took the box, staring at it, wondering what this was about. He looked around the table where Sefa, Marc, Roman, Lance, and Jen were beaming at him, as if _they_ were the ones getting a gift from _him_. "Why?" He asked, then wanted to hit himself knowing how ungrateful he must sound, and he didn't mean it, he just wasn't sure why they would give him a present. He knew birthday gifts were traditional in some families, but the Reigns had done so much for him, to give him gifts was really amazing. "Never mind, that was stupid," he said, trying to hastily back step, "Pretend I didn't say that. Th-thank you." He held the gift, just staring at it and added, th-this is the first birthday gift I've ever gotten."

"Uh, they're usually better if you _open_ them," Lance suggested. "You know, see what's inside and all."

Mox shot Lance a look, then opened the package slowly, not sure he wanted to ruin that perfect paper, with it's shiny black surface and colorful balloons. But, he knew that Roman and Lance would both never stop teasing him, if he expressed sentimentality over wrapping paper, so he didn't bother to peel the tape away, just pulled off the bright, red, bow and then tore off the wrapping paper.

It was a laptop, a Gateway to be specific at least that's what the box was telling him, and the box was sealed shut with packing tape, which told Mox it was brand new. Lance had a desktop in his room, and a laptop he carried around, but Lance was heavy into this whole computer and internet experience. Roman had a laptop for his school work. He did some gaming on it too, but he preferred to game on his PlayStation 2. Mox always used the family computer for his school work, not minding at all that it was in Sefa's office. He didn't think Sefa minded either, seeing that he was hardly ever _in_ his own office. Rarely was there a time when it wasn't free when Mox wanted to use it, but maybe he'd used it more than he realized. Maybe there were a few times Jen had wanted to use it, and been unable because Mox was doing his school work. "I-I'm sorry," he found himself saying before he could stop himself.

"Sorry for what?" Jen asked, looking puzzled and a little hurt.

As Mox looked around the room he saw everyone had that puzzled, hurt, expression and he realized yet again, he'd blown it. He should have been happy, and said "Oh wow!" It was too late now though, he'd said it, so he attempted to explain, "I-I haven't been using the main computer too much, have I?"

Jen's brow furrowed and then she smiled, and shook her head. "No, not at all, Jon! We just thought you might like to have your own computer, something portable, so you can do your school work when and where you want."

"Really?" Mox smiled and it was genuine, as he thought about how nice it would be to be able to sit on his bed and work, or in the den, or anywhere else in the house, not to always have to sit in the office, where the desk chair was fine for the first 20 minutes or so, then made his butt hurt. "That's great, thank you!"

He said the right thing, because everyone went from looking anxious to grinning again.

* * *

The laptop turned out to be only _one_ of the gifts he got that day, which was another surprise. It was the only gift he got in the morning, as Roman and Lance had to get to school, but that night after the apple glazed, baked, stuffed, pork chops were eaten, and dessert finished, (another delicious cake, this one saying "Happy Birthday Mox" in bright red letters and decorated with sixteen small candles and one sparkler in the middle) other gifts were given to him, most of them themed around the laptop. Marc gave him a case to carry it in, made of heavy canvas and a steel frame to help protect it. It also had various pockets inside to put other things, like pens and notebooks.

Lance gave him some blank CDs so he could save things from his computer. Exactly what he was supposed to save, Mox wasn't sure. His school work was done on the computer, and then submitted to whoever graded them and sent it back, but Mox still thanked Lance and figured now that he had the discs, he would probably figure out a use for them.

Roman gave him a computer game, _Return To Castle Wolfenstein,_ and Lance offered to help him install it if needed. "It shouldn't be an issue," Lance said, "But you never know. Sometimes a game barely comes out and you need to download a patch for it."

Besides things to go with his laptop, Mox also got some socks, underwear, and two new pairs of jeans. He was very grateful for the jeans and the underwear, because the pants and underwear he was using were getting a little bit tight around the waist and maybe even just a tiny bit too short.

* * *

Shortly after his birthday, Roman, Marc and Lance introduced Mox to the concept of Christmas Shopping. Mox had gone grocery and general shopping several times with Jen, and while at first it was overwhelming, not being used to this huge, outside world, it wasn't long before he first did get used to it then even got fairly comfortable with it, then moved right into boredom with the whole experience. He was surprised to find out that Christmas Shopping was considered to be in a league of its own.

"What makes it different?" He asked Roman, after Roman had asked him if he wanted to go with them the next day, which was Saturday.

"You know how sometimes when you go shopping it can be busy or slow?" Roman asked. When Mox nodded, Roman continued with, "Imagine the busiest day you've ever been shopping, multiply it by thirty and you have Christmas shopping. Well, no, actually, since we're going on Saturday, multiply it by fifty instead. _Everyone_ goes Christmas shopping on Saturday. On top of that, the mall, where we'll be going, is full of all these decorations and the same songs playing over and over again, Christmas Carols." Roman's brow furrowed for a moment, then he shrugged, "The Christmas Carols may not bother you as much, seeing that you probably weren't over exposed to them growing up."

* * *

Mox had money. Sefa paid him for the work he did around the camp. When Mox had tried to protest, saying that his getting lessons was enough, Sefa had disagreed, telling him that wrestling lessons was a benefit of working for the school. When Mox tried to argue that the Reigns were feeding and clothing him, Sefa reminded him that the state gave them money to help care for Mox.

"I'm also not paying you minimum wage," Sefa said. "Because I can get away with that. This is a family business and you're family. So, take the money I give you, say thank you, and enjoy it."

"Thank you," Mox said, and added, "What do I spend it on?"

"Whatever you want," Sefa said, shrugging. "You can also save it until you need it."

Mox hardly spent any of the money. He had bought Jen and himself coffee at Starbucks once, right after his sixteenth birthday. He had also bought a couple of sodas and some beef Jerky when Marc had taken him to a doctors appointment, and they had stopped at a gas station, but that was about it. He had a little over 500 dollars saved up. He remembered "Timmy's" stash that he had left behind. At first he had really regretted not having it, but now he was almost glad. He would have felt strange spending that money. This was different. This was _his_ money, earned all by himself, none of it was stolen. He wondered how much he should take for Christmas shopping, realizing he had little concept of what things cost. A CD of music cost about ten bucks, which seemed like a lot of money, but people were always complaining about the price of food being so expensive and yet you could buy a can of tuna fish for less than a dollar. It seemed to him that ten dollars worth of tuna fish would be a better thing to have than one music CD, especially since you could listen to all the free music you wanted on the radio. He tried explaining this to Roman one day, but hadn't done very well. Roman had said Mox only valued the tuna fish more than the music because he had been kept half starved for so long, Mox could see his point, but it didn't help him decide how much money he should spend on Christmas gifts, it just suggested that giving someone ten dollars worth of tuna would probably not make a good gift.

He stared at the stack of bills, sitting in his dresser drawer, debating what he should take. Yes, he had a dresser now. It had been in storage in one of the outbuildings, but brought into the house, cleaned up and now held his clothes and other things.

"Hey, Mox!" he heard Marc shouting from downstairs. "Are you coming or not?"

 _Better to have too much and bring some home, than not to have enough in the first place,_ Mox decided as he gathered up the entire pile and put it in his pocket. "Coming!" he called out as he hurried from the room.

* * *

Roman's warning about Christmas shopping barely scratched the surface of the actual experience. Before they got into the mall, Mox was convinced Roman been laying it on way too thick. Yeah, the parking lot was almost full to the max and the mall had only been open about half an hour, so they ended up having to park in a sub lot, about as far away from the mall as you could get, but walking wasn't a big deal he walked all the time. And yes, the outside of the mall was decorated with a lot of red and gold shiny things, and a song Mox was starting to recognized, _Jingle Bells_ , was playing on the outdoor speakers, but that wasn't too bad. It was almost… _nice_ in a way. Bright and festive.

They walked through the first set of double doors, and there was an almost whooshing noise, as a blast of warm air hit them. Mox didn't understand why the heat was on, it was just under 60℉ outside, but people who lived in Florida seemed weirdly obsessed with being warm. The heat wasn't bad though, it felt almost cozy. Then, they walked through the second set of doors. Mox had been listening to Lance, who was discussing how they should handle this whole mall experience, where to go and how to split themselves up so they could shop for each other, and at first, barely noticed the inside, then Lance finished speaking, so Mox looked around.

And almost fell down on his ass.

First, were the people. Mox had gotten used to running with campers in the morning sometimes, so he thought he could handle crowds, but that was nothing compared to the hundreds, no, _thousands_ of people who seemed to be in this mall. Tall people, short people, average people, men, women, children. Asian people, Black people, brown people, white people. Men in business suits, women in dresses, teenagers dressed in all black clothing with white makeup on their faces and dark makeup on their lips and around their eyes. Young children dressed in overly bright clothing. Groups of people, probably families, wearing similar outfits. _So many damned people_. Mox knew there were a lot of people in this world, he wasn't _that_ ignorant, but it was one thing to know about a lot of people, or even to see a crowd of them on TV or in a movie, it was another thing to be part of the crowd, even on the very edge.

Then there was the mall itself. He had never been to the mall, and he thought it would be sort of like someone grouped together a whole bunch of Walmart's, but it wasn't. It was huge inside, and the floor was a white stone, polished so brightly that the overhead lights reflected off of them as if they were mirrors. The walls were white too, but so much of the walls were decorated, not just with the storefronts, but all the wall space around the storefronts. They had come in through an entrance that was right by the "Meet Santa" area, so there were at least a dozen evergreen trees, covered with fluffy white stuff, that he would later realize was supposed to be fake snow, and hundreds of bright, shiny, balls and bells, Christmas ornaments. "Santa's" place was on a raise platform with a fence around it, except for two sets of stairs, one for children to enter and one for them to exit. Women, dressed up in velvet dresses of green and red were guiding children either towards Santa, whose suit was so red and white, and the black belt so shiny it seemed to glitter, or guiding them to their waiting parents. And along the walls of the mall were storefronts, each trying to outdo the other with colorful, striking, displays, trying to demand all of your visual attention. And there was something about that Santa Suit that put Mox's teeth on edge.

So much shiny brightness that it made Mox feel as if his pupils were overly dilated, like they used to be all the time when he first moved in with the Reigns, his vision was not used to sunlight. He had worn a pair of polarizing sunglasses for awhile, and he wished he had those glasses now, even though he knew that they might take away some of the shine, but not diminish it completely.

He remembered when he was living with Richard and Sam, how he would steal bits of aluminum foil when he could, just because it was shiny and unless they had the bright lights going, the basements he stayed in were usually dark. He would horde this foil, just to hold it up to the dim light of the one low watt burning bulb he would be left with most of the time, admiring the shine. One tiny bit of foil, shining. But this was as if someone took every bit of foil in the world and were beaming bright lights off of it.

Competing with the shine was the noise. All those people and all of them wanting to talk to each other. Different accents, different languages, Mox felt like he was hearing every single word in existence being spoken around him, so many words, until it all became a constant, buzzing noise that drilled itself into his head. And on top of this was the mall music system blaring out bright music. Music, that Mox was convinced if you could see it, it would be as shiny as the decorations.

Then there were the smells. A million different perfumes and colognes, along with the smells of food. It felt like people were standing, each holding a can of every type of air freshener in existence and were all spraying at the same time.

It was so overwhelming that he found the entire mall beginning to spin in his vision, and his legs turned to rubber. He wasn't aware that Roman, Marc, and Lance had plunged further into the mall, not the least bit bothered. Mox was trying to fight this feeling of sensory overload, trying not to both puke and pass out. He tried to stand as still as possible, even closing his eyes to try to get his bearing, but the voices, smells, and the music seemed to even get louder. He didn't want to, but he could hear himself whimper, like some stupid, helpless, puppy.

Then, he felt Roman grab his upper right arm. "Hey, bro, are you okay?"

"No," he gasped, embarrassed, but unable to lie. "Too much…"

Mox _felt_ more than saw himself being guided somewhere, even though he had opened his eyes, it was as if they just refused to see everything. It had all faded down to a pinprick of very shiny light. They took him to the food court, and guided him to a chair at one of the many tables. Fortunately, it was still early enough that the food court wasn't as crowded as it would become when lunch time came. Lance and Roman sat down at the table with him, while Marc went to one of the food vendors.

I'm sorry," Mox gasped. "Sensory overload."

"I warned you," Roman said, a trace of a chuckle in his voice. "Christmas shopping is the extreme sports of shopping."

The humor in Roman's voice was more assuring the words he was speaking. If Roman could find humor in this situation, Mox was pretty sure he wasn't going to die.

"Focus on the table," Lance suggested, "Just look down at the table and nothing else."

Mox took Lance's advice and stared at the plastic table, designed to look like it was wood of sorts, focusing his entire visual sense on nothing but the table. He didn't even register Marc coming back until Mox felt something placed beside him, something cold and wet that dripped on the table. Seeing the water drip from the condensation forming on the outside, he realized it was a paper cup of liquid and he was _really_ thirsty. Grabbing it, he took a sip, realizing it was either Coke or Pepsi, he didn't know the difference. But it did feel so good going down his throat, that he found himself sucking down over half of it before he could stop himself.

"Should we leave?" Mox heard Marc asking Roman. "He seems pretty stressed."

"Nah," Roman said, his voice still confident, _breezy_ , even. "He'll be fine. We should have realized this would be too much for the guy. Let's just give him a few to look around and get his bearings. Once the place starts to look more familiar and less alien, he'll be fine."

Mox wasn't sure how Roman knew, but he was right. After about twenty minutes and two sodas, his breathing was even, and while he still saw plenty of shiny surrounding him, his eyes adjusted to it. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't be sorry," Marc said. "It's no big deal. This gives us time to organize a strategy anyways."

"Why do you need a strategy to shop?" Mox asked. "Don't you just go into the stores, get what you want and leave?"

"What do you want to get?" Roman asked looking at him. "Do you know what gift you want to buy for Mom? Dad? Lance? Do you know what you might want to get for Nonna? Because she will get you something."

Mox thought for a moment then shook his head.

"That's why we do divide and conquer," Marc said. We'll split into two groups, and that way we can help each other. Or, at least get opinions from each other. If we're lucky, we'll get all our shopping done in one day."

"What about whoever we're with?" Mox asked. "How do you shop for that person?"

"That's why we meet at the food court in a few hours," Lance said. "We switch around for that reason."

"But, with any luck, we _will_ be able to get this all done today," Roman said.

"Mox and I might," Lance said with a roll of his eyes, "But I'll bet you and Marc are going to go Christmas shopping at least a couple more times with some girl or another who just _has_ to pick up a few more things or something dumb like that." He looked at Mox, and in a pretty good imitation of some of the girls that stopped by the house to visit Roman, said, "Oh, Romey! we can walk hand and hand as we look at ugly Christmas sweaters together!"

* * *

After getting his bearings, Mox figured the rest of the Christmas Shopping was about the same for them as it was for anyone else. They went into stores, they looked at stuff, they found what they hoped to be the right stuff for the right person, and they stood in huge lines and bought the stuff. Roman and Mox went together one way for the first part of the day, while Marc and Lance went the other. After having lunch at the food court, they switched around, Mox going with Marc and Roman going with Lance. He ended up buying a lot of CD's as presents, because Marc and Roman could tell him easily what each member of the family liked for music and what CD's they might enjoy. The only exception was Lance because Mox knew Lance liked books, but he had no clue what book or books he might like. He asked Roman if he knew.

"Probably any book that he hasn't read yet," Roman said, snorting.

"How do I know which ones he hasn't read?" Mox asked. "He's got _way_ too many books for me to remember them all. Plus, he uses the library, so he's read books I've never seen."

"Good point," Roman said. They were in Barnes & Noble, which was a gigantic bookstore. "You could go with a gift card."

"What's that?" Mox asked.

"You prepay however much money you want," Roman explained. "And you get this plastic square thing that the store will accept as though it was cash on whatever they want."

That sounded good enough to Mox, so they went to the counter, where Mox was surprised they had more than one type of gift card. He looked at Roman with an expression of bewilderment. "Doe it matter which design I buy?"

"Not really," Roman said. "But, he'd probably appreciate the Lord Of The Rings one. He loves the books and he loved the movie."

Mox bought the Lord Of The Rings card. They even gave him a little box to put it in, so it could be wrapped up. "Is this going to look like I'm giving him jewelry?"

Roman shrugged, "Until he opens it."

* * *

By the time they got home it was close to dinner time, and Mox was exhausted. "Is it me?" he asked Roman as they brought their purchases up to their room and hid them.

"Is what you?" Roman asked, as he stored his bags and boxes in the closet.

"Being so tired," Mox said, as he pulled out one of the boxes of wrestling magazines he had under the bed. It had enough room left in it to store most of the gifts he'd bought. He wasn't worried that anyone might try to peek and find out what he'd gotten them, except maybe for Lance, so he removed the actual card from the box and tucked that in his underwear drawer, just leaving the empty box with the other gifts. There was nothing on the box itself to identify it as being designed to hold a gift card. When he finished, he flopped on his bed. "It wasn't like I was lifting weights or something."

"New experiences," Roman said. "I find that surrounding myself with stuff I'm not used to is exhausting, Even if it's stuff I'm pretty familiar with. I think that's why they talk about home field advantage in football games. It's not just the idea that we know the field, know all the rough spots and all such, it's that our eyes are used to seeing one particular field. We barely have to register it. We go to a new place, and it's never quite the same. Our energy is partially being taken by noticing everything that is different from our home field. And, keep in mind, we're not seeing anything we haven't seen before. Playing field, goal posts, locker room, so on and so forth. We _know_ all these things. They're just rearranged differently and that's enough to mess with our senses. In your case, everything you saw was stuff you weren't used to. I mean, did you even have a Christmas tree when you were growing up?"

Mox thought about it and shrugged. "I think so, maybe once or twice, but it wasn't fancy like those ones at the mall." He had vague memories of one time being allowed to color cardboard star and circle shapes with crayons and then putting string through them and hanging them on a tree. He even remembered his father and Sam complimenting him. "You colored those really good, Timmy!" Richard had told him.

He almost smiled, thinking that might actually been one of the few, almost good memories he had of his former life, then another memory crashed down on that one. Someone in a red suit, a Santa suit, just like the guy at the mall was wearing along with a fake beard. It wasn't Sam or Richard, he knew that because Sam and Richard were watching him. "Look, Timmy," he heard Richard say in an abnormally cheerful voice. "It's Santa! and he's got a _big_ surprise for you!"

He sat upright in bed as if someone had jerked him and gasped. "No!"

"No, what?" Roman asked.

Mox looked around the room for a moment, putting everything into place. He was Mox, he was on his bed, in the room he and Roman shared. Roman was his foster brother. He lived in Florida. He was sixteen, he was learning to be a wrestler. Each fact he reminded himself of was as an anchor to this reality. "Nothing," he said. "Just remembering something."

"Let me guess," Roman said, "something pretty crappy about your past?"

Mox knew better than to lie. He nodded. "Don't worry about it though."

"I'm not," Roman said.

Mox knew he was lying. Roman _did_ worry about his memory flashbacks, as did everyone in the family. Jen had even told him that after the Holidays were over, Mox was going to have to start seeing someone called a "Talk Therapist," who sounded to Mox like a person who was paid to listen to you talk about all the bad things that happened in your life and somehow, talking about them would make you "get over" them. Mox had balked at this plan, but Jen had stood firm along with Ms. Clarke and even Sefa, this was not something to be debated, he _would_ go. Mox had no intention of talking to this person about his past. If he had to, Mox would just sit there and stare at this therapist for the entire time, no one would _make_ him talk.

The Reigns had figure out enough of his past, and he was sure they would tell this "Talk Therapist" what they knew, and that was all that therapist was going to get. There were things that had happened to "Timmy" that Mox would do his best to make sure they never saw the light of day.

* * *

Christmas came and went in a flurry of wrapping paper, gifts, and food, and when it was over, Mox was sure he owned more _stuff_ than he had owned in his entire life. Not at one time, but if everything he had every owned before he met the Reigns was added together, he would still now own more stuff than _all_ of that. He got a portable CD player with headphones, several CD's of all different types of music so he could figure out what type of music he liked. He got a cell phone, which he really had no idea what he would need it for. But he was on the "Family Plan" which meant he could call Marc, Roman, Lance, and their parents without occurring any charges. He got wrestling themed T-shirts, videotapes, and books. He even got a duffel bag, so he could bring some of his stuff somewhere else if he needed to.

The amount of stuff was overwhelming. He thought he'd never be able to fit it all into his part of the bedroom, but once he cleared out the clothing he had that no longer fit him, he could put the new clothing in. Sefa and Mox put some shelves up on the wall on his side of the room the day after Christmas which gave Mox a place to store almost everything else. But, at least at Christmas, he didn't get overwhelmed and say anything stupid, he just thanked everyone and smiled a lot.

Things and possessions, were awesome, but they could be a trap if you weren't careful. You got used to things and once you did, it was harder to leave them behind. Mox had been trying since he got here to keep his life as stuff free as possible, so if he ever had to leave, he could do it quickly and easily. Not that he ever wanted to leave the Reigns, but he was realistic enough to know that the future was never set in stone, and each thing he acquired was another thing he'd likely have to leave behind if he had to bug out of here.

* * *

The best Christmas present Mox would get was not something he'd ever have to pack or leave behind. Football season for Roman was over, the Crusaders had won the state championship, which was awesome and Mox was happy for Roman, but now that football season was over, that meant Roman worked at the Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy. It meant that instead of doing other sports, like a lot of other football players did, Roman _wrestled_. He helped train other wrestlers, and he was taught new things himself so he could train better. Yes, he spent a lot of time in the gym, and he claimed that the wrestling was just to keep him in shape for the next football season, but none of that meant much of crap to Mox. The _importan_ t thing to Mox was that Sefa said that since they were close to the same age, and Roman was more experienced, that Roman should take Mox under his wing and they should come up with a storyline which they would play out on the "Free to the public" shows the school had. They were to do everything as if this was a regular promotion, not just a camp show. Promos, matches, everything. And Sefa left it up to the two of them. "I'm curious to see what the two of you will come up with," Sefa said. "And what people will think about it."

They were at one of the tented rings, Roman and Mox sitting on the ring apron, Sefa standing in front of them. "We don't hold any overnight camping for a bit, we do run regular classes through January. I expect you two to help out with the classes. Roman will be going back to school soon, but he won't be waking up at four in the morning, trying to get to practice, or going to games on the weekends, or practicing after school. The two of you will have plenty of time to figure it out."

"When do we start?" Mox asked eagerly.

"No time like the present," Sefa said, shrugging. "I'll leave the two of you to start working it out."

* * *

 **Author's** **Notes** **: So, now as you can see, Rollins Got Run Over by a Reindeer took place within this chapter. It wasn't Christmas when I was writing this, so I didn't realize I might want to have a Christmas story in it.**

 **Now, we have New Years Eve coming fast. Everyone reading this? Stay safe. Have fun, but stay safe. Nobody wants to spend the New Year in the emergency room. And, let's hope 2019 is a better year. 2018 started out with promise, then went to that hot place in the hand basket.**

 **Thanks, as always, to everyone who bothered to read this. Double thanks for anyone who F/F the story. Triple thanks for those who reviewed it. It means a lot to me that you let me know you like the story.**

 **Happy New Years, one and all! And if you have a group of friends who love to party? Offer to be the designated driver, if you can! Most places will give you free non alcoholic drinks if you say you're the DD. Your friends will appreciate it. And, if your friends were like the people I grew up with? You can get some embarrassing pictures/videos of them doing some really out there drunken chit, and use it for leverage the whole year long.**

 **Peace Out  
Willow**


	15. Chapter 15

**Hi everyone! I only put this on the top of my stories so that the chapter title will center better, below. One of the major pet peeves I have with FFnet, is that they don't allow for better formatting. I get that they don't want people to be able to use a billion different fonts and colors, but I don't see where skipping lines. allowing folks to use things other than hard lines to show a change in scene, or maybe a larger, header font to put at the top.**

* * *

 **Chapter Fifteen**

{o}

Sefa had barely walked away when Mox looked at Roman. "So, what do we do? Where do we start?" He looked hopped up with excitement, his eyes almost glowing.

Roman grinned. "We start with who's the heel and who's the face."

"That's easy," Mox said. " _I'm_ the heel." He rolled to his feet and started running the ropes at an easy pace, allowing him to still speak, but to burn off some of the excessive energy, he'd probably gotten the second Sefa told him about the plan.

"Oh?" Roman raised his brows and rolled to his feet, but didn't start running. "Why do you want to be the heel?"

"Because I'm fucking nuts," Mox said, grinning as he ran. "That's my character. Crazy people aren't supposed to be faces. I mean, maybe they can be once they've established themselves. Maybe they can go after a bad guy, because crazy doesn't mean I don't know when someone is being an asshole. But I think to start, you're the face, I'm the heel."

"Okay," Roman said easily. "Why do you want to get in the ring with me? What's our motivation for fighting?" He turned so his back was to the ropes and watched Mox running them.

Running the ropes had become some kind of therapy for Mox. It started with the day something had happened to shock him. Roman had no clue what had happened, he just remembered coming home from school and being told that Mox was sleeping and he'd had a "bit of a shock." The look on the face of both his parents told him he was not allowed to ask any specific questions about what had happened.

The next morning, when Roman woke up, Mox was coming into the bedroom, soaking wet with sweat, which made him aromatic enough, yet on top of that, he also had had the sour, stomach churning scent of vomit clinging to him. "Dude!" Roman protested. "You _reek."_

"I know," Mox said, looking defiant and maybe even a little bit proud. "I ran the ropes until I puked."

Roman knew all about running the ropes until you vomited, although he hadn't experienced that particular joy for himself and hoped he never would He'd been sacked bad enough playing football. He remembered the first time he'd been tackled in the gut so hard that stomach acid and a mouthful of whatever he'd eaten for breakfast, flew up into his mouth and how he had to quickly swallow it down. He knew he would never be able to hear the expression, 'I threw up in my mouth' without knowing literally how it felt. "I hope you cleaned it up," he commented.

"Of course I did," Mox said, looking insulted that Roman had even asked. "I puked on the grass, but I still washed down the grass and got rid of the chunks."

Ever since that day, if Mox disappeared, usually all you had to do was check the rings. Most times the outdoor ring right by the house, but sometimes one of the other ones. Running the ropes seemed to have become an outlet for Mox, something he could do when he needed to sort things out in his head, or plan what he was going to do next.

Roman didn't mind wrestling and he liked that when football season was off that he could help in the family business, but he wasn't sure if he could ever loved wrestling like Mox did. He wondered if _anyone_ could love wrestling as much as Mox did, even people who had made their living at it, like his father.

When Sefa retired, he started a camp to teach wrestlers, one of the finest, most revered wrestling training schools around. A school that even offered intensive two week overnight sessions, for folks who wanted to really learn and had the time to be there 24/7. His father _loved_ wrestling. But Roman also knew that if his dad won the lottery, he'd sell the camp. Or maybe give it to Marc to run, but he'd be more than happy to walk away, or at least strongly restrict his hours. Roman was sure that if the skies opened and solid gold coins had rained upon Mox's head, he'd _still_ want to be a wrestler. If there was a chemical in the brain that made people want to become wrestlers, Mox was ODing on it. _Yeah, he and that Seth guy from Christmas are two peas in a pod. A pod branded with a wrestling logo._

"We want to fight because you're too good looking and I think I need to make you a little less pretty," Mox offered. "I think if I break your nose a few times, that should do it."

Roman rolled his eyes. "You exaggerate," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not _pretty._ I don't even think I'm all that handsome."

"Yes you are," Mox teased. "You've got that silky, _pretty_ hair."

"Oh god, _stop_ it," Roman groaned. "I'm waiting for Lance to have enough of this whole 'I finally have hair again' thing, and cut his hair, then this goes." He motioned to the ponytail that hung down his back.

Mox stopped in his tracks. "No way," he said, shaking his head. "You _can't_ cut that hair. It's _perfect."_

"It's just _hair,"_ Roman said, pausing as well. "None of my other friends wear their hair this long."

"It suits your face," Mox insisted. "Especially because you've got enough of that hair on your upper lip and hanging out on your chin that makes your face look… what's that word? Very like a guy, nothing like a girl?"

"Masculine?" Roman supplied.

"Yeah, masculine," Mox said, nodding too, as if he couldn't agree enough. "Some guys with long hair look girlish, you don't. It makes you look like some savage, you know?"

"Savage?" Roman stared at him. "Great, I look like a savage. I don't feel very complimented, Bro."

"In a good way!" Mox insisted. "Like a noble savage sort of thing. Different from me. I'm boring. I'm too skinny and my hair seems to be fighting over what color it is, brown or blond or even red."

"I think you look okay," Roman said, shrugging. "And why are we discussing our looks, anyway? You want me to ask you to the prom or something?"

Mox laughed, which Roman was glad about. You had to be careful with Mox, sometimes the most innocent of remarks that even skirted the issue of sexuality made him uncomfortable. But they had gotten to the point where the two of them were friends enough that Roman could joke around with him, and Mox knew it was a joke. "No, I want to do promos where I call you out for being too _pretty_ and then threaten to bust your face apart. Because that is one thing you have over almost everyone and one thing that people can find irritating."

"I think we could get a _little_ more complex than that," Roman said. "We could build something up where you had a girlfriend, and she breaks up with you, and I start dating her, so you are convinced I stole her from you and that pisses you off. Then it would be understandable why you want to make me ugly. I'm sure we could get one of the female wrestlers to help us out."

"No." Mox said, firmly. "No girlfriend. No boyfriend, let's not go that way, either. Let's leave all that stuff out of it." He started running the ropes again, and Roman joined in. For several moments all that could be heard were the sound of sneakers hitting the floor of the ring and the sound of the ropes snapping back into place as they were hit. Ropes, that were actually steel cables covered in plastic. "The camp doesn't have a belt, does it?" Mox asked.

"You mean an official Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy belt?" Roman asked. "No. But there are a few belts around that have been used as props by other wrestlers for shows and stuff."

"Okay," Mox paused again, leaning up against the ropes. "How about this then? We talk to your Dad and see if he goes along with it. The idea would be that your dad announces at the next show, that the Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy is going to have its very own belt. Samoan Pride wrestling champion, whatever. And we have some kind of match of the best wrestlers in the camp… a ladder match probably. Where we all fight to get that belt. It eventually gets down to you and I, and you win it. You win it clean and fair, well, as clean and fair as a ladder match can be, but I just lose my _shit_ over it. I'm convinced that you got it because you're Sefa's son and that it's unfair and wrong and I _demand_ to be the first one to challenge you. Maybe I'll win, maybe I won't, but that's where we start. Beyond that, we'll talk to Dad about how it's supposed to go.

Roman nodded. It wasn't a brand new plot by any means, but that didn't mean they couldn't put their own spin into it. When it came down to it, wrestlers fought for one reason, to get the better of another. It might be a grudge match over some slight, real or imagined, or it might be because someone was getting more attention from someone else, but the most common reason was a belt. Someone had a belt and everyone else wanted that belt, because that belt meant you were the best. The plot was the oldest in wrestling, but it had lasted so long because it was a _good_ plot. Everyone wanted to be seen as the best, especially when it came to fighting sports. And nothing showed you were the best, better than a nice, shiny, belt.

* * *

They spoke with Sefa to get his opinion, and he approved so they went to the outbuilding where various props were kept and dug out the belts. looking for the best one. Sefa dug one out of a plastic storage bin and held it out to Roman and Mox. "What do you think of this?"

Mox looked at it, studying it. A lot of the belts they found were cheap, made with fake leather and metal that was merely stamped thin tin, or plastic with metallic paint. This was not; the belt part was real leather and the metal front plate was a lot thicker than pressed tin. And unlike most of the other belts, there was no promotion name on the belt. No "WWF" or "WCW." There wasn't even an official category. No Heavyweight Champion, no Regional Champion, all it said across the front, in fancy, scroll lettering was "Champion." He reached out and picked it up. It had some weight behind it. "Where is this from?"

"I forget," Sefa said, shrugging. "Aleki might have brought it with him when he worked here. It's what you call a place card belt. Something a brand new promotion might buy one to act as a filler while they have another belt designed specifically for them, which explains the lack of promotion identification."

Mox held it as if it had just been placed in his arms by a referee. He looked down at it, hoping his expression looked like one of awe and amazement, as if he had just been handed the greatest treasure in the world. Then, he looked up, as if seeing an audience of folks who were booing him, furious that the crazy, angry, heel kid had beaten out the handsome, polite, and sane face. He flared his nostrils, then flipped the belt so he was holding it, face plate down, and raised it so it was above his head so everyone could see it. He had won it, he was the champion. _I will do this many times in my life,_ he told himself. _With many different belts from many different places._

He barely heard Sefa saying to Roman, "I think we found the belt.

* * *

Mox knew that if this had been the WWF or another major promotion, a lot of their matches would have been on the fly. They wouldn't have the time to rehearse, it would be a case of, "You will win, your partner will lose, here are the points you need to discuss while doing your promo, go at it." A referee would be patched in with the back, calling moves if necessary and letting them know how much longer they had, so on and so forth. But, since this was not the big time, and the major point was safety, they could have the time to work out their matches.

"You both need to practice," Sefa insisted. "It's okay to get a little banged bruised up, but try not to do anything permanent each other. Your mother will have a fit."

* * *

While Roman was willing to take this whole wrestling conflict seriously, he still expected to have some downtime. He'd just gotten through a brutal football season that had taken over almost all of his free time, he wasn't going to live that way for the rest of the time. He wanted more time to visit with his friends, to date girls, to go to parties. He wanted a little more than to eat, sleep, do school work and wrestle.

Mox, on the other hand, wanted to do nothing _but_ work on this storyline. Every moment he was expected to do something not related to wrestling, he resented. Even sleeping and eating sometimes seemed like a chore. Studying for his GED was almost unbearable at times, trying to understand basic algebra, when he could be working on moves and planning how to cut promos.

"How do we get the promos out there?" Mox asked Marc one afternoon, when Marc had taken him into the arena's small locker room, where they would film his first promo, which would be for the ladder match.

"Mostly we show them at the shows themselves," Marc said, as he worked on setting up the video equipment. "Lance is working on a way to put promo videos on the web page. Right now, he's got a few that people can download and watch, although they don't get downloaded that much, because we're just a school, not a real promotion. He's also going to have audio only versions, which will be a lot easier to listen to on the website, or download to listen to offline. While you miss the visuals, audio can be powerful too. They used to announce wrestling matches on the radio."

Mox nodded. He knew all about Lance redesigning the website for SPWA, because it was one of his pet projects. Lance was taking a class in web design for school and the site would be his final project for the year. Lance had all sorts of ideas and had happily talked to Mox for hours about things like Java, Sea-plus-plus, and HTML. Mox had no clue what he was talking about, but he had visited the page. Every time Lance saw him looking at it, he hastily explained that it was a work in progress, and that it would be getting better and better, but Mox thought it looked pretty good the way it was. There were a lot of biographies about the trainers and students who had gone on to be successful wrestlers after they graduated. Mox had checked out a few other wrestling school websites and thought that the SPWA's site was just as good as any, and a lot better than most.

* * *

There were going to be ten people in the ring for the ladder match, and all ten would cut a promo for it. Both Marc and Sefa made it clear that since this was to lead off into a rivalry for Mox and Roman, the two of them had better do the best promotions of the bunch.

"Keep in mind," Sefa said, "I'm putting eight other people in the ring, folks who have been attending this school for awhile. Eight folks who live in the area and have lifetime memberships to this school. These are guys who actually fight in the indies every chance they can. Eight guys who are willing to come on that Saturday night, and do this, hoping that they'll get a good video and some buzz out of this. They're all going to be trying their best to steal the show, and neither of you can let them do it. So, your wrestling had better be great and your promos so sharp you could cut fishing line with them."

"Wrestling is fast paced," Marc said, as he finished setting up. "You'll have to learn to think on the fly, but since this is the first, we'll cut you some slack. It can take time to learn to feel comfortable in front of a camera. So, don't be worried, just give it your best shot. We'll work out the kinks and let you do as many takes as you need. Are you ready?"

Mox nodded. Marc was going to be doing the filming and it would be a simple, one camera operation. Mox could do some moving about, but not too much, So he chose to sit on the benches in front of some lockers. He'd been offered the chance to have someone "interview" him, but he'd turned that down. He wanted to see if he could do this without any prompting.

 _You're not as blind to this as they think,_ he told himself. _And you can do this. This is your moment._

"Roll on One," Marc said, to give Mox time to set himself up. "Five, Four, Three…"

* * *

As Marc counted down, Mox sat on the bench, forearms resting on his knees, head hung down. When Marc called one, he stayed in that position for a few seconds, only showing the camera the top of his head. When he finally looked up, his eyes glittering a little too brightly. "You don't understand," he said, as if he'd been talking already and the camera was finally filming it. "You people don't _get_ it, you never _will._ "

His tone sounded a little shaky, almost as if he might be ready to cry, which surprised Marc. Marc thought he'd just start screaming about how he had to win, being the crazy guy he kept telling everyone Mox the wrestler was going to be. The earlier promos he'd done in the ring with other students for practice usually ran along those lines. He'd get right in his opponents face and brag about how he was just _so_ much better than they were, because he didn't care.

"You _care,"_ He'd tell the other person. "You care if your bones break, or if your eyes get gouged out. You care if something hurts your pretty face. Well, guess what? I _don't_ care! Break my bones, poke out my eyes, slice my face into bloody ribbons, I'll still keep coming at you, because unlike you, _pain just keeps me going!"_

Now though, he looked like someone who was on the other spectrum of crazy. Instead of being a laughing lunatic, his insanity came across as pitiful desperation. Someone who you could almost feel sorry for, until you realized that to pity him would be a dangerous idea, because he _wanted_ you to feel pity, so you would let your guard down and he could go for the kill.

"You all want to win the championship because it's just _another_ check mark on your win list. You all _have_ awards, you've _always_ gotten awards," Mox continued. Mark raised up the camera and pointed it downward so the camera was looking down at Mox, making him look even more pathetic and Mox looked upward and into the lens of the camera with that same, sad look. "I never had _anything!"_ he continued, his voice horse, almost cracking as if he was fighting the tears. "All the other kids I went to school with, they _all_ won awards. Perfect attendance, Best at Math, Science geek of the year, _all_ those awards, but not for me! _Never_ for me! I couldn't get perfect attendance, because most mornings my mother was too wasted to make sure I got up on time! I couldn't win math or science awards, because those things just… _bored_ me. I tried to play sports, I tried out for Little League and some kid made fun of my sneakers, so I took the bat and broken his kneecaps! Suddenly I'm too-" he held up his hands, making quote marks with his fingers, "-'aggressive' to play sports. All my life, _never_ good enough, _never_ any awards for _me._ " He paused at this moment and rubbed the back of his hand under his nose, then he wiped his hand on the front of the black T-shirt he was wearing, leaving a faint, but still visible trail of snot. You might have to look hard to see it, but it was there. Apparently, Mox-the-wrestler couldn't even be bothered to use a tissue, even when being filmed. _Nice touch,_ Marc thought.

He lowered his head again, as if the mere burden of Mox was too much to deal with and he needed a moment. Three seconds later, a perfect pause time, he looked up again, but instead of looking as if he was about to cry, there was a glint in his eyes. "But now… for the first time, _I_ have a chance! _I_ have a chance to prove that I _am_ somebody, and _I_ deserve to win. I know, everyone is saying they're going to win this belt. You're going to hear nine other guys telling you how important this belt is, but there's a difference between them and me. They _want_ to win. I _have_ to win. This is _my_ chance to show everyone they're wrong about me. That they've always been wrong about me. That I am _not a loser,_ I'm the fucking Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy Champion!" He glared into the camera now as he spoke, nostrils flaring. "And once I win that belt, I will defend it, but I will _never_ give it up, because _I won't have to!_ Nobody will be good enough to take it away from me. _Nobody!"_ He glared at the camera a few more seconds and then stood up, so he was looking at it straight on, rather than up at it. "I've said all I wanted to say! Now _get the fuck out!_ _ **Go!"**_

Marc stopped the camera. Mox grinned, his expression going back to normal. "Was that good?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

"Yeah," Marc said, staring at him in disbelief. "You did great, I just want to film the beginning again, so I can have the camera angle right from the start. We can edit it."

"Or, I can just do the whole thing over," Mox said, shrugging. "Either works for me."

* * *

That evening, Marc showed Sefa the video. The two of them were alone in Marc's living room. "So, what do you think?" Marc asked.

Sefa shook his head. "The kid is a natural," he said. "No stumbling over words, no hesitation. He did this in his second take?"

Marc nodded. "His _first_ , actually. I re-shot the beginning and edited it, because I think it looks best with the camera looking downward, it makes him look more vulnerable."

Sefa nodded slowly. "Promotion wise, he's going to blow Roman away, unless he brings his A game to the table. And to be honest? I don't know if Roman has that much A game in him. Hell, I don't know if anyone in this ladder match has as much A game as this kid does. He's _scary_ good."

* * *

It took Roman a lot more than one take to get his ladder match promo to win his father's approval. He tried, but he didn't have the gift that Mox did. _Maybe it's better he wants to stick with football,_ Sefa mused. _He's not so great at talking himself up. Not good for a wrestler at all_. It wasn't that Roman didn't like wrestling, Sefa knew Roman didn't mind actually wrestling, but wrestling, well, it wasn't as much about wrest _ling_ as it was about _wrestlers._

"You have to _sell_ yourself," Sefa explained. "The product isn't just the wrestling, it's _you._ "

Roman nodded solemnly. "It's… not easy for me," he said, hesitantly. "When I play football, it's different. Even though Coach might talk me up as the reason why the Crusaders made State Champs, I know that's not really true. It's a team effort. Nobody can carry a whole team by themselves."

"Yes, but this isn't _football_ ," Sefa said. "It's _wrestling._ "

"I know," Roman said, trying not to sound exasperated. "But Dad, I'm always being accused of bragging. _Always._ Or sucking up, or whatever. If I show up first for every single practice, it's not because I'm dedicated, it means I'm a suck up. If I'm able to get the final touchdown that wins the game, I'm showing off. I don't know why, but I feel like I'm constantly walking a balanced line. Most of the time, I can do okay. I can wait until I see someone else hitting the field in the morning and join them and we can both walk in together. Or I can go around telling the rest of the team how awesome it was that we all were able to work together to get that victory and that helps. But this is different. In this, all I'm supposed to do is talk about how superior I am. I'm going to come across like an arrogant SOB, and I really don't want to do that. I know this is just for the academy, and isn't likely to be seen beyond this town, but a lot of guys I go to school with come and see these free shows, because well, you know, _free._ I don't mind wrestling in front of them, but I really don't want them to rag me for talking about how awesome I am."

"You're the _face,_ " Sefa said, trying not to sound exasperated. "You're _supposed_ to be arrogant, especially with the way _you_ look. You need to be an arrogant, babyface who believes he has the world by the tail and it's all for him. And if your friends don't get it, that's _their_ problem."

"Easier said than done," Roman mumbled.

Mox had been sitting there quietly, watching this exchange. He had asked at breakfast that morning if he could watch Roman film his promo, and Roman and Sefa agreed, realizing at this point, they should take all the help they could get. It was Friday, and the ladder match was the next evening, so time was drawing short. Sefa turned his attention to him. "Mox, any suggestions?"

Mox shrugged. "Maybe I'm talking out my ass, but if he can't talk _himself_ up, how about he talks the school up?"

"What do you mean?" Sefa asked, although he had a pretty good idea what Mox meant, but he wanted the kid to explain it.

"It's the _Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy_ ," Mox said, looking at Roman. "It was started by _your_ family, _your_ father. It's a _family_ business. It's a pride issue. You are the son of Nathan Reigns, the man who was part of one of the greatest tag teams of all time, _Samoan **Pride**_. You can't let your father down, you can't let your family down. You _have_ to win this ladder match, because if you don't, then people will think your father can't train his own son to be good, someone who carries that lineage in their… their… D and A. Your father will be ashamed of you. Do you really _want_ that?"

Sefa decided to forgo telling Mox it was DNA, not D and A. The kid was talking truth and let's hope Roman listened.

Roman looked at him and opened his mouth as if to object, then closed it again. His brows furrowed, then smoothed out again and he nodded. "Okay, I think I can run with that."

It still took over ten more more tries until he Sefa felt he'd gotten it right, and even then he thought Mox had done a better job on his first take. _If Roman ever decides to go into wrestling?_ he thought, _he'd better be part of a stable or tag team where he can just be the strong, silent, type_.

* * *

 **Author's** **Notes** **: So, Mox has cut his first promo. And yes, I admit I took various bits and ideas from his other Mox promotions. But, everyone has said for years that Mox is a promo master and I don't think his lousy childhood would have taken that away from him. He might have trouble, socially, when he's not in a ring or behind a camera, but I hope I'm getting across the idea that Wrestling is his escape. It's his way of being able to express that larger than life personality he's been forced to repress all these years.**

 **Thank you to everyone who read this. Another thanks if you read it and liked it enough to F/F it. A third if you took the time to comment. I appreciate all of my readers, so much.**

 **Peace Out!**

 **Willow**


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. This disclaimer is just a bunch of crap to make the chapter title center better. Original characters are products of my own mind and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is merely a coincidence.**

 **There, I should have written enough to make the centering work, providing people don't have their printing extremely tiny.**

* * *

 **Chapter Sixteen**

{o}

With the exception of needing twelve stitches on his head when it was over, Mox thought his first ladder match, in fact, his first _ever_ public match of any sort, went just fine. He didn't mind the stitches, although Jen wasn't too happy about it. Yes, it had hurt, when the ladder was slammed into his head and his skin split open, and for the rest of the match, he could feel blood running through his hair, sometimes even falling on his neck and dripping down his chest. He was a mess, and when he watched the video later, he thought he looked _great_. Messy, bloody, and just plain crazy. It just didn't get _any_ better than this.

The person who had looked the most horrified in the match was Roman and that was because Roman had been the one who tipped the ladder that caused Mox to fall. Roman was only supposed to tip it enough to shake him off, so he could land on his feet, but as with man in the real world, wrestlers planned and God laughed. Mox had hung on a little too long, so instead of falling off and rolling out of the way, he'd fallen face first to the ground, and the ladder had fallen down on top of him, ripping his skin.

Peterson, a guy who was attending the SPWA and learning to be a ref, slid over and asked him if he wanted to continue. At first Mox thought he was being an overcautious pussy, after all it was just a fall on his face and a ladder falling on his head, a light weight aluminum at that. Then, when he realized how badly it was bleeding, he understood. "S'cool," he said, shaking his head. "I can keep going."

Peterson shook his head, but allowed Mox to stand up and get back into the ring. He called into his microphone, knowing Sefa was watching from backstage wearing his own headgear. "Kid's bleeding pretty bad, do you want me to call it?"

Mox could hear it over the headphones, because Peterson had the volume up pretty high on his headset. Sefa hesitated then said, "No, he's already in the ring and if we call it, he's going to be furious. Just keep tracking him and let him and Roman know it's time to wrap it up."

* * *

"We could have pulled you out of the match," Sefa told him, as they were sitting in the emergency room after the match, a doctor stitching up his head. "Roman was supposed to win anyway, so it wouldn't have affected things _that_ much."

Mox stared at him in shock that felt worse than the pain of the wound had. Right now, it just felt numb, because the doctor had given him three shots of Novocaine and he could feel the needle as nothing more than slight pressure. It was the first time in his life that he could remember that he had gotten stitches in a hospital, and that someone had numbed him up with anything other than a hit from a crack pipe, a line of coke, or a shot of booze. "It would have _wrecked_ it," he said, fighting from shaking his head too, knowing he shouldn't do that while getting stitches. "This is going to lead Roman and I into a _major_ rivalry. If I'd been taken out of the match because of a _cut_ , it would ruin the effect. It was _so_ much better the way we did it." The match had ended with the other eight wrestlers outside of the ring and Mox and Roman being the ones to battle it out, Roman the one to get all the way to the top and grab the belt. "Now I've got _twice_ the reason to be upset at Roman. He messed up my head and then he took the belt! Mox the wrestler is _crazy_ , a blow to the head is the _last_ thing he needs. It's not going to stop him, it's just going to make him _twice_ as angry, _twice_ as crazy."

The doctor, a young intern, made a strange noise, and while Mox couldn't see her face, he imagined there was an expression of annoyed bewilderment on it. "I thought the point of wrestling was that you tried to just _look_ like you were hurting each other, not to _actually_ hurt each other," she finally said.

"That's what's _supposed_ to happen," Sefa said, "But it doesn't always work out that way."

Mox grinned. "Sometimes it works out even _better."_

* * *

The stitches kept Mox from wrestling for three weeks, but he and Roman kept the heat going. Sefa started holding shows _every_ Saturday night because this belt storyline had attracted some attention before it even started. Lance had designed promotion posters on his computer, printed them out and then he, Mox, and Roman had gone to every place in town that had a public board and posted them. Most of the schools were on Christmas/semester break and having someplace to go on a Saturday night that was free was a pretty big incentive. And, because it was free, they were far more likely to spend money at the concession stand. If Sefa knew anything after all these years, it was that there was a pretty tidy sum to be made from selling soda, popcorn and various other treats. And it wasn't like he had to pay people to run the stands, that's what students who didn't measure up yet, were for. The sooner they learned that starting out in professional wrestling often meant doing a lot of things that had nothing to do with wrestling, the better off they would be.

Roman was slightly irritated at these happening every single Saturday night, because it meant a prime date night was now taken up with wrestling, but he got over it when he started noticing a fair number of girls near his age, showing up for the shows, not with dates, but in groups. And whenever he went out to the ring, the female cheering for him was loud and rowdy and punctuated with a lot of declarations such as, "I love you, Roman Reigns!" and "Look at me, Roman!" A few even started bringing signs, as if this were the WWF. "I heart Roman!" and "Go to Prom with me, Roman!" were popular ones. There were even a few for Mox too, declaring their devotion and love to the lunatic, but most of the girls seemed hotter on Roman than him.

"Let's face it," Mox said, when after one show, Roman was mobbed by girls from his school and from the local public high school and it took over two hours to get away from them, not that he was _trying_ very hard. "You're the guy that drives the girls crazy."

"I'm not the only one," Roman pointed out. "More than a few of them have asked me about you. You and I could be double dating every Friday night, if we wanted."

Mox frowned, his mood lowering instantly. "Drop it, Roman, I don't date."

"I know," Roman said, shrugging, "I'm just saying you _could_ be. A lot of girls think you're great. You're the bad boy, the crazy one. Lots of girls love a bad boy."

"Not _this_ one they don't," Mox said in a voice that clearly said the discussion was over.

* * *

Being unable to wrestle didn't stop the storyline. The next week Roman came out to show off the belt and to talk about how proud he was to have honored his family by winning. How much it meant to his family, to himself, and how he would be a _defending_ champion. It looked as if he were building up a full head of steam, getting ready to deliver a long, and likely boring as hell, tribute to the wonder of his family and the Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy, when Mox came out and told Roman to shut up. Roman acted shocked, the student announcers made the appropriate remarks, one commenting about how disrespectful Mox was being, the other praising Mox for stopping Roman's speech. "The next time they let Roman talk, someone better bring us a pot of strong, black, coffee and a box of No-Doze, it's only fair!"

"Just shut _up,"_ Mox said, ignoring the announcers, "You talk about _honor_ , you talk about _pride_ , and neither of those words describe you!" He bent his head down showing where his hair had been clipped to keep the area around the stitches clean. "Look what you did to me, Roman! _LOOK!"_

Roman winced and Mox was pretty sure that wasn't faked. Roman had been wincing over the stitches since Mox and Sefa had come back from the hospital, and Mox wished he'd just get _over_ it. But Roman managed to pull himself up to his full height and responded, "That was an _accident."_

"Don't give me that, Roman Reigns!" Mox said, his eyes closing into a steely squint. "I was on that ladder, about to grab that belt and _you_ pushed it over. You had to stop me, because you know I'm a far better wrestler than you. That on my _wors_ t days, I'm still a hundred times better than you are on your _best._ You talk about _honor?_ You _cheated_ to get that belt and you know you did."

Roman took a step closer to him, holding up the belt, lips curled in a sneer. "I don't cheat. I won this belt fair and square, Mox. It's not _my_ fault you're too crazy to recognize a _real_ wrestler when you see one. Who are _you_ , Mox? Some little street urchin _playing_ at wrestling, that's who. Me? I come from a long, proud, family of wrestlers. Wrestling is in my blood, my bones, my very DNA. The only reason why you're allowed to be in the Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy is because my family feels _sorry_ for you."

 _Good one,_ Mox thought. They were winging it at this point and Mox was impressed. _Roman does better if it's a back and forth thing._ "You _wish_ , pretty boy," Mox said, taking one step closer himself, tipping his head back slightly to look at Roman. I agree, you come from a long line of professional wrestlers, and your father is one of the best. But talent has been known to skip a generation and it skipped _right over_ you. And even worse? Your father _knows_ it. He knows that you'll never amount to _anything._ That's why I'm here. If his kids won't be able to make him proud, he'll at least have students that will live up to his legend. Students like _me."_

Roman moved a little closer, to the point where their chests were almost touching. "Big words from the guy who _isn't_ holding the belt." He shook the belt to emphasize his point. "Why don't you run off and help sell popcorn at the concession stand and leave the wrestling for the big boys."

The popcorn was a good dig, because Mox had been working the concession stand, while his ankle was healing and when he first started training. Of course, Mox hadn't cared, he was just thrilled to be able to do _something_ to help out. But he narrowed his eyes and stared at Roman as if furious. "You said you were going to be a _fighting,_ champion," he said. "Prove it. Defend that belt against me, right here, right _now!"_

The audience began cheering loudly, clearly liking this idea.

"I'd love nothing more than to prove to you, one on one, that you're not worthy of this belt," Roman said. He was still holding it up, every once in awhile, shaking it in a menacing fashion and Mox wondered if his arm was getting tired. "But you can't wrestle, _remember?_ Your head is still split open from last week."

"I don't care," Mox said. "I can _still_ fight."

"Fine, it's your funeral," Roman said, and looked over Mox's shoulder to the ramp. "Someone get a referee out here, right now!"

The audience cheered louder, turning their attention to the ramp. But instead of Peterson or one of the other referee students, Marc came out, wearing a pair of dress slacks and a blue, button down shirt, looking all business, microphone in his hand. "I'm sorry, Mox," he said, "But the doctors orders are at least three weeks before you can wrestle again."

The audience booed.

Mox had spun around to look at Marc, and looked furious. Roman on the other hand, gave a low, chuckle. "Sorry, _Moxy,_ no fight for you this week. Not until your poor, little, head is healed." Mox spun around again to look at him as he continued, "So, it's going to be at _least_ another two weeks before we fight." His expression changed from amusement to disdain and anger. "And the next time, instead of just splitting your head open, I'll take it right off your shoulders."

Mox turned his back to him again, looking as if he was going to storm out of the ring. Roman stood, looking triumphant. Mox took one step, then whirled around, raised his knee and drove it into Roman's gut. Roman let out a gasp, a look of complete shock coming over his face, and then falling to his knees.

Without another word, Mox slid out of the ring and headed up the ramp. A lot of girls booed him, but not _all_ of them. And most of the _guys_ were cheering him on.

* * *

As each show went by, Sefa became more and more impressed with Mox. His wrestling skills weren't bad and improving every day, but put a camera in front of Mox-the-wrestler, or stick a microphone in his hand, and the kid was a complete natural, to the point where he was bringing out the best in Roman as well.

Sefa knew wrestling had changed over the years. In his heyday, faces were faces and heels were heels and the faces were always cheered and the heels were always booed. But people weren't as innocent anymore, not as willing to play along with the script said they should do. Sometimes, the heels were more popular than the faces, and people weren't going to pretend otherwise. They would cheer for their heel favorites and boo the faces that came across as too good to be true. The time of the Antihero was at hand, and that was a role Mox seemed to be born for.

Mox began wearing a plain black knit cap to cover up where his hair was growing back and came out on the third Saturday after the ladder match, expecting a fight and was told by Roman and Marc, that no, this week would not do. Roman had _other_ obligations now that he was the Champion of the academy, and there might be times when he would have to make public appearances to promote the school, so Mox had no right demand a fight. When Mox had lunged for Roman anyway, swearing that he'd mess up his "pretty" face, Marc got in the way to stop it, and Mox ended up punching _Marc_ in the face before storming away. That segment ended with Roman on his knees beside Marc, making sure his brother was okay.

* * *

They played with the concept that Mox could not get his shot at the belt for awhile. It didn't matter that Mox and Roman had been the last two in the ring when Roman won, which could have been a good argument for Mox getting a chance, or at least a chance to join the line and prove himself. But Marc and Roman clearly had other ideas. Roman had to fight other matches first, other people, who Marc told Mox, were _much_ more deserving of a match with Roman than Mox was, that Mox had to work his way up starting at the bottom.

As they played this out, the whole storyline went in a natural direction and it wasn't quite obvious who was the good guy and who was the bad. Roman was always _portrayed_ as the larger than life face, Mox as the scrappy, crazy, kid who just wanted his chance. And people started getting behind the crazy, scrappy, kid. Even when Mox was acting his worst, people _liked_ him. He interfered with every match Roman had, did promos talking about the injustice being force upon him. "All I want is the chance to prove myself! I've _earned_ it!" People could relate to this. It was a new era and more people could relate to the kid who had to beg and claw to get what he wanted than the kid who always seemed to have it all. Roman, on the other hand, always acted on some code of honor. He might come out and sit in a chair during some of Mox's matches, never speaking, just holding the belt and watching. But he never tried to interfere. Instead, Mox sometimes would get disqualified, because he'd leap off the top rope, landing on Roman and just reigning blows upon him. Roman defended himself on these, but there was something about Face Roman that made all his pride and honor seem almost too good to be true, as if he was playing at being nice, but if he and Mox ever tangled without witnesses, Roman would have no problem doing anything he could to leave Mox bruised and bleeding.

It got to the point where every time Roman showed his face and started talking, people started going, "Mox-Mox-Mox-Mox!" trying as hard as they could to drown him out.

Sefa was worried how Roman felt about this, seeing that his middle son had such a big problem at the beginning, doing a promo where he had to talk himself up. But when Sefa asked him about it, Roman smiled. "It's fine," he said. "I'm sort-of the good guy who's _really_ the bad guy. I'm the suck up, being protected by my family. Yeah, I know, that's what people think of me anyway sometimes, but I don't mind playing it out. This is Mox's dream, not mine and this isn't real. You know I don't care about having the belt. But I don't mind _pretending_ I care. It's a game and I just don't take it as seriously as Mox does. This is Mox's dream, and he's good at it."

"I know," Sefa agreed. "If he didn't want to be a wrestler, I wonder if he'd want to be an actor. He's a natural."

"He is," Roman agreed. "And I _know_ I have to drop this belt to him soon or the audience may lynch me."

"Eh, they may try," Sefa said with a grin. "But I think most of the teenage girls would rise up to defend you."

Roman rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Don't _you_ start with that, Dad."

"Hey, I call it the way it is," Sefa remarked. "You're starting to become a heart-breaker, just like your old man."

At this, Roman laughed. "Yeah, you were a wild man, until you met Mom. Then you settled right down."

"I _was_ a heart-breaker," Sefa insisted, "But I _wasn't_ an idiot."

* * *

One of the gifts Lance had gotten for Christmas was a decent digital camera and he used it a lot for the SPWA website, taking hundreds of pictures of Mox and Roman and putting the best ones up on the site. There was something called Streaming video, but the average Internet user still worked with a 56.6 modem or if they were lucky, DSL. They just didn't have the speeds to be able to watch videos as they played on the website. But, Lance still put the best of Mox's and Roman's promotions on the site for those who did have the speeds. (And, if he had to be honest, he put a lot more of Mox's promos than Romans. Roman was his brother and they shared a special connection, but Lance knew when it came to the business, Mox's promos were _so_ much better. He also put zipped files of promotions and matches that people could download and watch offline. He was thrilled to find that people were downloading them and putting them on file sharing sites, and he began doing the same thing, which saved on having excessive bandwidth costs.

The family looked at the website as Lance's thing, which was fine with Lance. Sefa appreciated that Lance found a way to handle try out applications and fees. Jen liked that Lance set it up so records of all money flowing into the school's bank accounts came right to her email inbox, so she could keep the books balanced. Mox checked out the site a bit, but never thought of it as much more than a place to let people know what was going on, and to encourage the locals to come to the shows on Saturday.

Lance knew the site was more popular than anyone seemed to realize, but he thought if he tried to explain, it probably wouldn't mean much to his family. It was just one of Lance's projects. And Lance liked that, because it pretty much gave him the freedom to do whatever he wanted with it. If he'd really taken the time to explain to his family the traffic the site was generating, and how people from all over the world were downloading and watching the matches between Mox and Roman, they'd start to take more of an interest, which would lead to them wanting him to do things the way _they_ thought was best.

Lance knew the day would probably come where someone in his family would realize how much attention the SPWA website was getting, but for now? he was happy to keep that information to himself. Let his family think that the only folks to check out the website were locals or folks looking for a wrestling camp to attend. Lance knew the truth, these shows were being watched on video all over the world. They were starting to build a fan-base.

* * *

Simon Green wasn't normally all that fond of being alone, but lately, he'd been deliberately finding excuses to get away from his best friend and "business partner," Dennis Hayes. The two had been best friends for years, even Simon's five year stint in Vietnam hadn't changed that, although Dennis had been able to stay out of that mess by staying in college. When the war was over and Simon came home, the two of them picked up together like they had never been apart.

But lately, Dennis was starting to be a complete downer. He'd always been a drinker, hell they both loved to party, but that was the point, usually they drank or smoked dope or took whatever, to _party_. Now Dennis was just drinking to drink. Sitting in front of the idiot box in the crappy two bedroom apartment they were renting together. Simon was trying to drag him out of it, constantly suggesting the two of them needed to rent another house, the _right_ house, of course, and get back into the swing of things, but Dennis kept coming up with excuses.

For Simon this failure was becoming routine, it seemed. Earlier that day, he had told Dennis of a house for rent he had heard of that would be perfect. Just far enough off the beaten path, semi finished basement, three bedrooms. The rent was fair too, and Simon had been told that the landlord lived in another state, and as long as the rent was paid every month, never bothered to stop by. He preferred to rent to folks who were able to handle "Most home repairs" themselves. That described the two of them perfectly. Simon really thought this time, that this would be the thing that would motivate Dennis. This was an absolutely perfect house and up until a few months ago, he would have snapped at it.

"It's a _drea_ m place for us," Simon said. "Not in a major, populated area, but not so isolated that it will look strange. A full basement, a landlord that just wants a check every month and not to be bothered about repairs! Could it get anymore perfect? The guy who told me about the place lived there for _five years_ and was raising fighting dogs and having dogfights _on_ the place and never got busted. The only reason why he moved is because his girlfriend was paying half the expenses, then she dumped him for someone else. He knows the owner of the place is looking for another renter, but he's too cheap to pay for an ad. We could probably get the place almost immediately."

Dennis looked from the TV to Simon. "We just paid the rent for this month. We've got a last month rent, so it will be at least two months before we'll be able to move."

That had infuriated Simon, because it was the lamest excuse yet. " _Fuck_ the lost rent," he said, trying to keep his voice down, but finding it difficult. "We can afford to lose it. We can just get this place and move out. Tell the manager that something has happened and we have to leave. As long as we aren't asking for a refund, he won't give a shit! And once we move in, we can go hunting. Get ourselves another one."

At the mention of hunting, Dennis visibly stiffened and he took his beer from the coffee table, which was half empty, and drained it. "Going hunting now isn't a good idea," he said when he was finished, his voice calm. "We need to be _careful,_ we don't know where he is and what he's doing."

"Oh, _fuck_ that!" Simon exploded, unable to help himself, trying to remember that the walls of this building were paper thin, so not to yell anything incriminating. "That's just a fucking excuse and you know it." He lowered his voice, making it more of a hissing than shouting. "It's been months and we haven't heard a _single word_. If he didn't fall in swamp, he's probably turning tricks at a truck stop. He's not saying anything, and he won't."

"How do we know?" Dennis said, putting the empty beer bottle on the table and picking up his pack of cigarettes and shaking one out.

"Stop making excuses," Simon said, eyeing the cigarette. That was another thing too, Dennis had gone back to smoking. Not that Simon cared, he smoked himself, but Dennis's smoking was a sign he was depressed. "Let's just _do_ this. We get another one and you'll feel better. I _knew_ you had the last kid too long."

"I just want to give it a couple more months," Dennis said, lighting up a Marlboro and leaning back in his chair, looking back at the TV, where some ridiculous episode of Jerry Springer was playing and some girl was both cheerfully and tearfully telling Jerry she was having an affair with her husband's sister.

"That's what you said two _months_ ago!" Simon said, leaning over and helping himself to a cigarette from Dennis's pack. It was the least the prick could give him, considering he'd started smoking again over three weeks ago, and this was the first pack he'd ever bought himself instead of bumming them off Simon.

"Oh, relax, Sam." Dennis blew a stream of smoke from his nose, still not taking his eyes off the TV, where Jerry had just announced that they had a special guest coming out. "What's _your_ hurry?"

That's when Simon gave up and stormed into the bedroom he was using and got on the computer. Dennis wasn't going to budge on this until he was ready, and Simon might as well just give up until that happened. Thank God he was still keeping the business going, doing everything he could to keep them both safe, or Dennis probably would have managed to alienate their entire customer base, if not get them both busted.

He logged into his most recent business email, this one a Juno account. He wished he didn't have to switch emails so often, but the internet was becoming more and more popular, both a good thing and a curse. It was good for business, but it also was starting to attract more of the wrong type of attention. Now it wasn't just kids and people like him and Dennis on the 'net. Parents and grandparents had accounts and were starting to pay more attention to what their kids were doing.

When his email inbox opened, he started scanning the subject lines and who had sent it to him. Who sent it wasn't as important, because just like him, most of their clients were constantly discarding and obtaining new email addresses. Subject lines were usually the key to knowing what was legit. There were codes people in his line of work, both suppliers and followers, used.

He started deleting the spam, which there was a lot of, when his gaze fell on one subject line. "Did you lose something?" It came from another Juno account, and Simon recognized it as an email address he'd done business with before, but that _wasn't_ a subject line that indicated business. He opened it. All it contained was a link labeled "Check this out." Random links were always a virus risk, but Simon clicked on it.

A site came up that he'd never seen before. At the top was written, "Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy." Simon frowned. Wrestling wasn't his thing, it was more of Dennis's thing, and the kid's thing too, for that matter. Then, as he looked down, he saw a picture of two people, standing in a ring. One a handsome enough kid with long black hair, but too old to be of much use in the business. He was holding up a belt, facing another kid in a black knit cap, staring at him with a look of hatred. Simon looked at the other kid for a moment, then gasped. "Dennis!" he called out, "Dennis get your ass in here, right now! I've _found_ him!"

* * *

 **Author's** ** Notes: So, yeah, things are getting intense. **

**Thanks to everyone who read this. Double thanks if you F/Fed it. Triple if you left a comment. It means a lot to me.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

 **{o}**

It was Saturday morning, and Mox woke up earlier than usual, but he wasn't surprised. This was _the_ day, the one he'd been working towards for the last few months. The only reason he'd even slept at all was because he had one of the pain meds from when he had his head busted open, and he'd taken it, knowing it would conk him out.

Today well, rather tonight, he was going to win that belt from Roman and close out this chapter of the storyline. It had gone over well enough that Sefa was talking about keeping it going, at least until Roman could have a rematch. Mox had watched the tapes of all the promos and the shows, and in his opinion, for a couple of amateurs in their first storyline, they were knocking it out of the park. And the steady crowds that had gone from filling most of the seats, to standing room only on Saturday nights verified this.

He looked over at Roman, hoping maybe he would be awake and the two of them could go and practice, but Roman had been on a date the night before and was still sound asleep, lying flat on his back, his hair clinging to his cheek where he'd drooled a little bit. His mouth was open too, and while he wasn't snoring, his breathing was pretty loud. _Gee, not exactly Mr. Sexy now, are you?_ Mox thought, part of him wishing he had a camera, so he could take pictures of this. Mox wondered what the girl Roman had gone to the movies with last night would think of him if she saw him looking like this?

Mox got up from bed and used the bathroom, brushing his teeth and running his fingers through his hair. He would shower, but not until he'd done his morning run and hopefully, when he was done with that, Roman would be up and after breakfast, he'd be willing to go over the match they'd be having that night, working out the last few kinks.

While in the bathroom, he put on a layer of sunscreen, which he _really_ hated, but knew that if he didn't wear it, Jen would get on him. He was no longer the overly pale kid that had been found in a ditch, but he wasn't exactly tanned either, most likely because Jen kept insisting he wear sunscreen. Lots and lots of sunscreen.

"I don't want you to get skin cancer!" she argued with him more times than they likely both could remember.

"And _I_ don't want to look like Casper the Effin Ghost all my life, either!" he'd argued back. Which of course, lead to a talk about his language, even though he hadn't actually used the real "F" word. And, usually she won, because just didn't want to argue with her. He told himself it was because she was such a pain in the ass about it, but he knew, deep down, that she did it because she loved him and wanted him to be safe, and as sappy as it was, that kinda touched him. He didn't want her to worry about him, but knew that she did, just as much as she worried about her other sons, her blood children. If coating himself in something that felt like liquid plastic made her worry less, he'd do it. He had to argue it once in awhile, in case she changed her mind, but ultimately, he'd do it.

When the sunscreen had dried on his skin, no doubt clogging the hell out of his pores, he changed into a pair of athletic shorts, a tank top, and a pair of running sneakers, it was time to start the day.

* * *

He was doing some stretches in the mud room, using the low bench that ran along one wall to stretch his knees and calves, when Lance opened the door, still wearing his pajamas. "Are you going running?" he asked.

Mox paused, looked at his sneakers, his outfit, then looked at Lance and grinned. "Nah, I thought I'd go to the opera, wanna join me?"

"Ha ha," Lance said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "Can I go running with you?"

"Not dressed like that, you can't," Mox said. He and Lance often went running together.

"Gee, you're a comedian this morning, aren't you?" Lance said, with another eye roll, but a faint grin playing on his lips. "I _know_ I have to change first. But it's been a couple weeks since we've had a chance to go running together, and I _miss_ it."

"I'll tell you what," Mox offered. "I'll start, but I'll take it a little bit slower until I get about halfway to the pond. See if you can get dressed and catch up with me."

Lance grinned. "You're on!" And before Mox could say another word, he turned and scampered off to get changed.

* * *

Normally, Mox ran to where the trail began. Not as fast as he ran on the trail itself, but usually a good jog just to warm up. But, to give Lance a chance to catch up, he slowed the jog down to a walk, until he got into the woods. The trees made this area significantly cooler than the open areas, so he put on some speed, enough to warm up his body, but still slower than his normal pace as he promised Lance he would.

As he ran, the sky went from dark gray to light gray, and as his feet thudded along the well-worn path, he listened for noises coming from behind him, letting him know that Lance was catching up.

About ten minutes into his run, he heard noises, twigs breaking, leaves crunching, but they were coming from ahead of him. There was a way to short cut some of the trail, and Mox grinned. _The little brat is either trying to catch up to me faster, or thinks he can fool me into thinking he passed me. Well, Lance, you might have a head stuffed with brains, but underestimating me is a_ _ **stupid**_ _mistake._ He put on a burst of speed, heading towards the noise.

He ran around a curved part, figuring that Lance would be on the straight part after it, that went almost a fourth of a mile. As he rounded the curve, he saw a figure in the grey light, and he headed towards it, then came to a dead stop, realizing it _wasn't_ Lance.

The figure looked at him, a grin on his face. A face that was so familiar to Mox, both in real life and in his nightmares, and it spoke to him. "Hello, Timmy."

Mox almost spoke, almost called him Father. Old habits were hard to break, and this man had control over him for over ten years. But, as the words came to his lips, he choked them back, and tried to turn to run, an inner voice screaming at him. _Get out of here! Run as fast as you can, and get the fuck out of here!_

But before he could take a single step, Sam stepped out from behind a tree with a shot gun trained on him. "Nice to see you, Timmy." he said, walking over to where Richard was, keeping that rifle pointed at him. He moved his head to indicate Richard. "As you can see, your daddy has _really_ missed you."

* * *

Lance was trying extra hard to be quiet as he ran, in hopes of catching up to Mox without him suspecting, thinking it would be fun to slip up just behind him and see how long it would take for Mox to notice. He was coming up to one of the bends in the path, when he suddenly heard voices. He stopped, thinking that Mox must have run into one of the overnight students who decided to do some cross country running. _Oh, this is going to make it even easier!_ he thought, slowing down just a bit, sacrificing speed for stealth.

Then he realized the voices weren't traveling. Whoever was talking, they weren't running or even walking, they were standing still. His first thought was that someone was hurt, either Mox or the student, and he was tempted to stop the quiet game and run as fast as he could to see what was going on.

Then, something in the voices, even though he couldn't make out the words, the tone itself just sounded _wrong_. So Lance ducked into the trees, trying to stay hidden and crept closer to the voices, trying to see through the leaves while not being seen himself.

As he got closer, he finally began to make out words. Someone said, "I missed you, Timmy" and he heard Mox say, in a voice that was higher pitched and trembling. "Missed me so much you were planning on _killing_ me."

That was when Lance was close enough to see. Mox was in the path, and in front of him were two men, one with long, dark, greasy hair, the other with lighter colored hair, cut very short. The guy with the long hair had a gun pointed at Mox.

Lance's first reaction was to scream, but he caught himself. If he screamed, the guy with the dark hair might just pull the trigger and shoot Mox. And then go after _him_. _I've got to get help,_ he told himself, _I have to get help right now, or Mox is going to end up dead._

His next instinct was to turn and run as fast as he could, not caring about the noise he'd make, but he knew that was just as stupid as yelling. The only chance he had was to quietly get out of range of their hearing and run for help. Even though he knew that speed was of the essence, even though he was absolutely terrified that any second he'd hear a loud crack, and that greasy scumball would have shot Mox, he forced himself to back away slowly and silently. They were talking, which Lance took as a good sign. As long as they talked, Mox wasn't getting shot. _I have to get help here as soon as I can. I I have to get to the house, right now!_

When he felt he was far enough away so he couldn't be seen or heard, he turned and started running as fast as he could, out of the woods, and across the empty field, towards the house.

* * *

"Missed me so much you were planning on _killing_ me!" Mox said, looking at "Richard," or whatever his real name was. The man he'd called "Father" for most of his life.

"No, I wasn't!" "Richard said, shaking his head. His eyes were bright, and Mox wondered if those were _tears_ in his eyes and if they were, _why?_

"Yes you _were,"_ Mox argued. "I _heard_ you and Sam talking. I _heard_ Sam saying I was too old, that you'd held on to me too long and it was time for me to go! I heard you agree that we'd all go to Florida, and have one final bash, then I was going to end up in a swamp being gator food! I _heard_ you. You were so _stupid,_ you didn't realize the last house were were in, I could sit on the top stairs in the basement and hear you and Sam talking in the kitchen! And you _agreed_ with him!" He didn't know why he was babbling like this, why he was saying things that were bound to piss off his fa-Richard and Sam like this.

"Yes, your right," "Richard" said, his voice soft, almost contrite. "And Sam was right too. You _are_ too old for the business. But… Sam didn't realize… hell, _I_ didn't even realize it until you were gone, but you were, no you _are_ different, Timmy. You stayed with us longer than anyone else ever had! I-I really came to think of you as my son, Timmy. You can even say, I _love_ you."

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Sam yelled, keeping the gun trained on Mox, but looking over at "Richard." "You _love_ him? Are you fucking _kidding_ me? You might have loved his sweet ass, and that mouth of his around your dick, but _you don't love **him**." _

Mox heard more than anger in Sam's voice, he heard _jealousy_. Mox realized that there had always been jealousy coming from Sam. Well, maybe not at first, but when Mox finally stopped fighting, and just began to accept the fate life had given him. When sometimes "Richard" was actually something close to nice to him, Sam hadn't liked it at all. He looked at Sam, then back at Richard. "Yeah, you _loved_ me all right. You loved me enough to chain me up in the basement, or leave me locked up down there in the dark for _days._ You loved me _so_ much you used to lock me in the back of the van, in that box. You loved me _so_ much you made me wear fucking adult diapers when we traveled and then laughed in my face when I finally had to shit myself. You just fucking _oozed_ your love for me when you kept bringing guys over to _fuck_ me."

"I admit, I did beat you in the beginning," "Richard" said, as if he could somehow explain all he'd done to Mox away. "I _had_ to though. You _had_ to learn. And you _did_ learn! Not only did you learn, but you found ways to be _better_. You outlasted any other boy we took because you were, no, you _are,_ special."

Mox could feel the bile rising in his throat, but he swallowed it down.

* * *

By the time Lance made it up to the house, he was almost out of breath, his lungs wheezing for air, his legs feeling like rubber. He didn't think he'd ever run _this_ fast for _this_ long in his life and he was just grateful that he hadn't tripped on the way and slowed himself down. He ran into the house, leaving the door open and ran into the kitchen where his mother was making breakfast. Roman, his father, and Marc were at the table, drinking coffee. Marc and his father seemed awake and alert, which was good.

"Hey!" his father said, as he ran into the kitchen, "Shut the d-" The words died in his throat as he looked at Lance, his expression going instantly from irritated to alarmed, so Lance knew he must look pretty bad.

Lance wanted to find the words, the right words to tell everyone what was going on with Mox as fast as possible. But it was suddenly as if his brain had seized and he gasped to breathe. "Mox!" he found himself screaming, but what came out was wheezy and a lot softer than he wanted. "Woods! Two guys… _GUN!"_ He croaked out the last word, but it was loud enough to get their attention.

"What?" his father said, and suddenly, everyone in the kitchen was stared at Lance, their bodies going rigid.

"Mox is in the woods," Lance managed to say, he was leaning over, his hands on his knees to support him, praying he wouldn't get a stitch in his side and be unable to talk. "Two guys, one of them has a gun pointed right at Mox! I think they're the guys that took him! One said he missed him, and Mox said that they'd missed him so much that they were going to kill him!"

Roman was first on his feet, knocking his chair to the floor, as he headed for the door. Fortunately, Sefa managed to grab him by the arm and stop him. "Roman! _NO!"_ He held onto his son's arm firmly.

"Dad, they _are_ going to kill him!" Roman shouted, trying to twist away, but Sefa hung on tightly. "That's why he ran away, because he was too old and they were going to kill him! _They found him!_ We have to save him before they kill him!"

"And if we go rushing down there, making a shit-ton of noise, that's not going to help!" Sefa yelled back. "And it may just get him killed faster!"

Jen had meanwhile grabbed the phone, but instead of dialing 911, she dialed the sheriff's office directly. Lance knew because she identified Patrick. "Patrick, I don't have time for games, let me speak to Aaron right now and if he's not- Oh, good." There was barely a pause and Aaron must have gotten on the line, because Jen started telling him to get to the house as soon as possible. "Just be silent when you get near our road, because Mox is in the woods with the men that kidnapped him, and one of them has a gun on him. So yes, please, hurry, and please be quiet, because I'm afraid if they hear sirens, they'll panic and shoot him."

While she was talking to Aaron, Marc had gotten up from the table and went into the other room. By the time Jen was hanging up, he'd returned with the shotguns the family kept. He handed one gun to his father, one to his mother, and kept one for himself. "You stay here with Lance and wait for Aaron."

Jen shook her head, "I'm not letting you go down there without backup!"

"Yes you are," Sefa said. "Marc's a good shot so he can be backup." He looked at Roman, whose arm he was still holding. "Most of the students are in the mess hall, run down and tell them that nobody is to leave the mess hall until the okay is given."

"Fuck _you_ ," Roman said, shaking his head violently, still trying to wriggle out of his dad's grasp. "Send Lance, _I'm_ going with you."

" _Excuse_ me?" Sefa glared at Roman.

Roman glared right back. "Do _you_ know that running trail? Lance and Mox know it the best, but I've run it way more than _either_ of you." He looked over at Lance, "Where are they?"

"Past the bend in the trees," Lance said his eyes wide and scared. "You know, you go sorta around that big tree and then it's almost a straight shot to the pond. Please go _now!"_

Roman looked back at his Dad, "You've got to sneak up on these guys. I _know_ where that bend is."

For a moment, a million emotions seemed to flicker across Sefa's face as he weighed the argument against the time that was being wasted. Then, he nodded. "Fine, but when we get close enough, you are going to turn and hightail it back here."

Fine," Roman agreed, although if Lance would have bet Einstein that his brother was saying whatever his father wanted to hear, and wasn't going to leave if he thought he could help.

 _Where_ _ **is**_ _Einstein?_ Lance found himself thinking, _Please be laying on my bed upstairs, please don't be outside._ "Just, please, _hurry!"_ he cried out, reminding them that there really was no time for discussion. "I'll go right now to the mess hall and tell everyone to stay put, just _go!"_

* * *

"I don't want to kill you," Timmy's father/Richard kept saying. "Really, Timmy. I-I thought _mayb_ e I could do it, but I realized I couldn't."

Every word that was coming out of Timmy's father's mouth was making Mox feel worse and worse. Not just because Richard was twisted, but because there was the Timmy part of him that didn't mind. That as much as he tried to kill it, the Timmy part of him still existed and the Timmy part of him had _wanted_ his father to love him.

"What use is he?" Sam was shouting, looking more at Richard than Mox. "He's too old for the business and he knows too much!"

"He's not _that_ old," Timmy's father was saying. "We'll get another one, a younger one, the two of them can work together."

"No!" The word exploded from him, "I'm not _doing_ it anymore! I'll _die_ before I touch another kid like I was touched! Or watch someone else touch another kid either!"

* * *

This was exactly how Simon _didn't_ want this to go. He thought that this would be simple, they would find Timmy, and kill him. Well, maybe not in the woods, but if they had to, fine. The gun had a silencer, and while that didn't make it whisper quiet, it would suppress enough noise so the folks up at the house and in the camp wouldn't think it was a gun going off. Then, leave the body, get away, and let them discover his body. But what he _really_ wanted was to get the kid out of here. Let his new family think Timmy had run off. They could throw him in the van and take care of him when they were out of here. _Maybe I'll shove the barrel of the gun up that brat's ass and pull the trigger._

He hadn't counted on Dennis spouting all this dumb-ass crap about _loving_ the kid. What the fuck was _that_ all about? The boys they took were always for two purposes, sex and money. They were just meant to be fun, you weren't supposed to _care_ about them as if they were a pet or something. Simon _never_ should have allowed Dennis to hang on to Timmy so long. It didn't matter how good the kid was, the moment the kid started sprouting pubes, he should have been disposed of, if not before. They'd had Timmy for over ten years, and Simon knew he should have put a stop to this, years ago, which meant he was as responsible as Dennis, but at least he was trying to correct it, unlike Dennis, the sentimental asshole. What next? Was he going to start begging and blubbering?

"Dennis, get it together, you fucking pussy," Simon hissed. "We're _not_ here to buy the kid ice cream!"

"Of course not," Timmy said, glaring at Simon now. " _You_ never bought me ice cream the whole time I lived with you, why would you start, now?"

"I did," Dennis said, his voice pitifully eager. "I bought you ice cream sometimes. Chocolate is your favorite flavor."

Simon was so angry, that the gun began shaking. "For fuck's sake, Dennis, cut this shit out! You don't love this son-of-a-bitch, you never _did_. He was exactly like the other kids we've taken, he just _lasted_ longer. Look at him, you asshole, _look at him!_ How can you say you love him? He doesn't love you!"

"That's not true!" Dennis said, in a voice that sounded so damned whiny, Simon almost wanted to shoot Dennis, then Timmy, and just take the fuck off. Did he really need _either_ of them?

"You loved me, didn't you, Timmy?" Dennis continued, still sounding disgustingly whiny. "I mean, maybe not all the time, but the times when I was good to you, when I bought you ice cream, or let you watch your movies and wrestling. You loved me then, didn't you?"

"No," Timmy said, his voice flat. "I never loved you." The kid had changed a lot in the short time he'd been gone. Yeah, he'd grown a bit taller and put on some weight, that was obvious. He no longer looked younger than his age. But it was more than just physical changes. The Timmy that had lived with them had been like a trapped animal that knew there was no escape. He was either cowering in fear or sadly resigned to life. Timmy now looked as if he was a lot stronger, emotionally. Dennis could have all the dreams he wanted, but this Timmy was not going to come quietly along with him. This Timmy wasn't going to help them find another kid, he wasn't going to stay with them so they could all be one big fucking happy family. _This_ Timmy would fight, _this_ Timmy would rather die than go back to his former life.

 _Don't worry about it you little ass,_ Simon thought, an idea coming to him. _You'll get that wish, and I'll pull Dennis out of this goddamned funk at the same time_. He looked over at Dennis, who was actually looking as if he was ready to cry because Timmy didn't love him. "You heard the kid, he doesn't love you, he never did. So, you wasted your fucking time, caring about someone who never gave a fuck about you. Dennis, you're a fucking _sap."_

Dennis still had that whiny look, but as he stared at Timmy, who stared back at him, Simon could see traces anger coming to Dennis's face and that made him hopeful. "Dennis, the kid doesn't love you," he repeated. "He never has, he never will."

"No!" Dennis said, shaking his head.

"Yes," Timmy said, his eyes cold, almost dead. "Sam's right. I never loved you. I never _could_ love you. Hell, I spent almost every moment of my life hoping you'd both drop dead and I'd never have to deal with you again, ever."

The anger seemed to be growing, smoldering in Dennis's eyes and Simon smiled. "See? He never loved you. How _dare_ that little shit say those things about you, after all you did for him? What an ungrateful, rotten little brat! You need to fix this, Dennis, and you need to fix it _now."_ While the anger was still hot in Dennis's eyes, Simon gave him the gun. "Shoot him, Dennis! Don't let this ungrateful little fuckhead get away with this, not after all you've done for him!"

Dennis took the gun and pointed it at the kid. "That's really how you feel, Timmy?"

Timmy glared at Dennis. "My name," he said, slowly, deliberately, seeming not the slightest bit afraid of Dennis, or the gun he held, "Is _not_ Timmy, it's fucking _Mox!"_

* * *

It was taking everything Roman had not to run through the beginning of the track, to try as fast as he could to catch up, but his father and Marc were right. Any noise could alert these guys and if they thought someone was coming up on them, they would be likely to shoot Mox and run. _Lance could do it_ , he thought as he, his father, and Marc tried to slip as silently along the path. _Lance sneaked up on them so they didn't even see him. I can do the same thing, too_.

The only time he paused was to pick up a rock that was just off to the side of the path. His father glared at him, but for the sake of silence, said nothing. Roman refused to put down the rock. He knew against a gun, a rock was useless, but it still made him feel better to at least have something in his hands. And at least he knew he had pretty good aim if it came down to it.

They could hear the voices before the bend. At first just an angry buzz, but as they crept closer, Roman started understanding what was being said.

"Shoot him, Dennis. Don't let this ungrateful little fuckhead get away with this, not after all you've done for him!" An angry male voice was saying.

"Is that really how you feel, Timmy?" This Dennis sounded angry too, but there was a tinge of sadness to it.

Sefa grabbed Roman and pulled him behind Marc and him, using the yelling as a cover. "Go home," he hissed, right into Roman's ear. "We can find them. See if Aaron has showed up."

Roman froze for a moment, wanting to argue, wanting to disagree, but realizing his father was right. His father and brother had guns. He had a rock. He wasn't even trying to bring a knife to a gunfight, he only had a damned _rock._ He was terrified for Mox, and desperately wanted to help, but knew he would be useless, no _worse_ than useless, because his father and Marc would feel as if they'd have to watch out for him as well as try to save Mox. Hot anger rose in him, but he wasn't angry at his father or brother, only at himself for not being invincible. He'd been able to save Lance with his blood, but he couldn't do anything for _this_ brother, he wasn't bulletproof..

"My name," they heard Mox saying, coldly, "Is _not_ Timmy. It's fucking _Mox!"_

Roman turned and started running in the direction of the house as fast as he could.

* * *

Amazingly, Mox wasn't afraid. Part of him thought he should be afraid, no, more than that, he should be terrified, but he wasn't. He'd spent too many years in almost constant terror while living with Sam and Richard… well no, not Richard, apparently, his name was Dennis, and now that he heard Sam call him that, Mox remembered a few times when he might have heard Sam make a mistake and call him Dennis before. It had a vaguely familiar sound.

Mox thought that for someone who had a gun pointed at him, his thinking was amazingly clear. His head was calm, he was cool and collected. He realized that the worst that was going to happen to him was that he was going to die and even though now he had so much to live for, he wasn't afraid. He realized that for the very first time in at least ten years, maybe all his life, he wasn't afraid at all. Even living with the Reigns, who always assured him they could take care of him, he realized there was part of him that had still been afraid. Fear and terror had been his constant companion for so long, that it was only now, it it's total absence, that he realized he'd lived with it all the time. _I don't want to die,_ he found himself thinking, _But I don't want to live like that anymore. I don't want to be afraid all the time, for myself, for the people I love. If I have to die to rid me of the fear forever, then so be it._

"No it's not," Dennis said, and he'd raised the gun up so it was pointed at Mox. His teeth were gritted. "Your name is _Timmy._ It isn't Mox, it was _never_ Mox, where the hell did _that_ come from?"

"I _picked_ it," Mox said. "Because you _stole_ my original name and I didn't want to be known by the name you picked for me, anymore." He was amazed at how calm he sounded, how unafraid. He knew that Timmy still lived inside of him, Timmy who often would do anything he could just to get his father to love him, but Timmy was shrinking too. Getting smaller and smaller inside of him. Timmy might have loved Dennis in some twisted way, but Mox did not.

"See?" Sam sneered. "He can't even be bothered to keep the name you gave him. Arrogant little pissant! Shoot him, Dennis! Show him you won't take his shit anymore! Shoot him! _Shoot him now!"_

* * *

Roman was just out of the trail and on the grassy field that lead up to the house when he heard the sound. It wasn't as loud as it could have been, but the noise was unmistakable.

It was the sound of a shotgun firing.

He debated if he should go back, but realized it was useless. If Mox had been shot, he was shot and Roman running back to see wouldn't help him. Better he run for help and hope that if Mox was still alive, his father and Marc would sort it all out. As he was putting on a burst of speed to run towards the house, he saw Aaron and one of his deputies running towards him. He stopped dead in his tracks, waiting for them to catch up to him.

* * *

Sefa and Marc were just rounding the bend of the tree, still being careful not to be seen when the shot rang out. Both of them automatically shifted their own guns into firing position, and carefully rounded the bend, but staying hidden in the overgrowth off the path. Marc was the first to see it, the two people standing, and one on his back on the ground, blood oozing from a hole in his chest.

* * *

The shot rang out and Mox automatically clutched at his chest, his brain unable to believe what his eyes were showing him. He gasped, waiting for the pain, or waiting for death. Then, his brain began to absorb what his eyes had shown him, began to believe what he had seen. Staring at Dennis, he spoke before he could stop himself. "What the _fuck?"_

Dennis was looking at the figure, crumpled on the ground in disbelief. "I-I" he stammered, then went silent and just looked at Mox.

Mox stared back at him, part of him still unable to grasp it, even if it was the truth. Dennis/Richard/Timmy's Father hadn't shot him, he'd shot _Sam_. Sam had been yelling at him, telling him to shoot Mox, shoot him now, blah blah blah, and Dennis had been about to do it, then at the last second, turned the gun and fired on _Sam._

Mox almost knelt down to see if Sam was truly dead, but Dennis had turned and had the gun aimed back at him. Mox stopped. He was shocked, he was horrified, but he still wasn't afraid. And, he knew that if Sam wasn't dead, he would be in seconds, kneeling wasn't going to help him. Sam's eyes were open, but they were staring into space, not seeing anything. So, Mox turned his attention back to Dennis. "Am I next?" He noticed Dennis's arms were shaking as he held the gun. _He's more afraid than I am,_ he thought.

"You _made_ me do that," Dennis almost whispered.

"No, I didn't." Mox marveled at how calm his voice sounded. "He was yelling at you, I wasn't saying anything. It wasn't my fault." _And I wouldn't give a fuck if it was,_ he thought. _Sam wanted me dead, I didn't owe him anything._

" _Now_ do you believe I love you?" Dennis said, his voice still that half whisper. "I killed Simon for you. I picked _you_ over my best friend."

"So, that was his real name?" Mox's voice was still calm and steady. "I should have known Sam was fake."

* * *

Sefa had frozen like a deer in the headlights when he spotted the body on the ground, afraid to move, least the noise startle the one with the gun into shooting Mox. The guy had already shot his friend, Sefa wasn't sure if it was Sam or Richard, but one of them was lying on the ground, clearly suffering from a fatal case of dead.

He was extremely grateful it wasn't Mox lying on the ground, but he knew Mox wasn't out of danger. The guy with the short hair had killed his friend, it wasn't hard to imagine he'd kill Mox next.

The guy with the gun was whispering something to Mox, but Sefa couldn't make out the words. But he could hear Mox's response and how calm it was. _I think this was the final straw for Mox,_ Sefa thought _. That boy has completely run out of fucks to give_ , _he doesn't care if this guy kills him. But, I do, and so does the rest of the family._

* * *

"Timmy, we need to get out of here," Dennis was telling him.

Mox stared at him, wondering just how far up his own ass Dennis's head was. "I'm not going _anywhere_ with you," he said, still calm.

"Yes, you are," Dennis said. "You _have_ to, I just killed my best friend for you."

"So?" Mox tipped his head to one side, studying Dennis's face, studying the gun and _still_ not caring. He thought he might be hearing people around and he just hoped with all his heart that none of them were Lance, that Lance had been stopped on his way here. Or, maybe Lance had seen and slipped off. Maybe the cavalry was here, waiting to rescue him. The only problem was that as long as Dennis had that gun on him, and it was barely inches from his chest, almost anything might cause Dennis to shoot. Even if someone got behind Dennis and put a gun to his head, the feeling of the barrel to his head might startle Dennis enough that he squeezed the trigger. Then, whoever sneaked up on Dennis would likely kill him, but Mox would be dead, too. "I didn't force you to kill him, that was a choice _you_ made. You always had choices, ' _Father,_ ' You chose to kidnap me, you chose to strip me of my name and forced me to take another one. You even chose to beat me until I forgot my name. You've _always_ had choices. I've never had any."

"You chose to run away from me," Dennis said, his voice rising slightly.

"Only to save my life," Mox said. "And that was probably stupid, because look where we are, now. You've killed your best friend, and now you're going to kill me."

"I-I won't if you come with me," Dennis said.

"I'm _not_ coming with you," Mox said. "So you might as well kill me. Get it over with. Then you might as well kill yourself, because you'll have nothing anyway. I don't even think you can get another kid without Sam's, I mean _Simon's_ help."

"I-I don't want to kill you," Dennis said. That half whisper was playing on Mox's nerves. Where did this humble bullshit come from? He sure hadn't been all whispery when he was beating him, or using him.

"Then put down the gun," Mox suggested. "If you put down the gun, then you can walk away and you don't have to shoot me. But I won't come with you. I'm too old for your games and I never liked them in the first place. Walk away, _Father,_ your 'Timmy' is an adult, time for you to let me leave the nest and fly away."

"But I don't want to _lose_ you," Dennis said.

 _Dennis, you are getting on my last fucking nerve and_ _ **then**_ _some,_ Mox thought.

* * *

As sheriff of a small town, Aaron had dealt with a lot of pretty miserable situations, but this was the very definition of a clusterfuck and he wasn't quite sure what to do.

They were all together, off the beaten track, watching Mox dealing with the guy who had a gun held up to his chest. Sefa, Marc, Roman, Deputy Thompson and himself. All standing here like a bunch of idiots. Everyone but Roman had a gun, but the guy with the short hair holding the gun on Jon Moxley, had it so close to his chest that anything might startle him into shooting it and killing the kid. And from what he could hear, Jon was egging him on, pretty much daring the guy to shoot him. And all eyes in their party were on him, wanting him to come up with the solution.

"I could try to get far enough away to snipe him," Deputy Thompson, who was big on bravado if not as much on brains suggested in a whisper. They were all whispering, but Aaron was still grateful the shooter's attention was focused on Jon.

"His finger's on the trigger," Aaron reminded him. "You shoot him and his reflexes are likely to pull that trigger and blow a hole in the kid."

"Couldn't _anything_ do that?" Marc whispered. "Like a noisy lizard running by?"

"Yep," Aaron agreed. "So, let's pray the lizards are avoiding this area."

* * *

Mox was so tired of this, he was about to just turn around and walk away and see if Dennis would shoot him. He wasn't going to go with Dennis. He'd rather die than do that, but that didn't mean he wanted to die. He still wanted to live, he just didn't want to be Timmy and he didn't want to deal with Timmy's Dad anymore. "Look, I'm not going with you," he said, making his voice as clear and distinct as he could. "Especially not while you have a gun pointed to me. I'm not a kid anymore. If you want to talk to me, put down the gun. You can still hold it, just don't point it at me, and talk _to_ me. Like an equal."

"I'm your fa-" Dennis began.

"-No, you're _not,"_ Mox interrupted. "You never were, you just made me call you that. And I did, because I was a child and I wanted to make you happy so you wouldn't _hurt_ me. I'm not a child anymore and I'm not going to let you hurt me. If you want me to even consider going with you, you have to take the gun off me, and we have to talk about it like rational _adults._ " When Dennis kept the gun pointed at him, Mox let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Can you at least take your fucking finger off the goddamned trigger? Because I'm not saying another word until you do."

An internal struggle seemed to be going on inside of Dennis and Mox could see it being played out in his face. Part of him wanted to put down the gun and talk, another part of him wanted to… well, Mox wasn't sure. Shoot him in a non fatal way in hopes that would convince him to go with him? Kill him and at least have his dead body to fuck for a few days? But Mox was going to stick to his promise. Not another word was going to come out of his mouth until Dennis put down the gun, or at least took his finger off the trigger. He'd been holding it so long, Mox was half surprised his finger hadn't cramped up and pulled it automatically. _I'll bet his arms and shoulders are pretty tired too. I wonder if he'll drop it if we play this Mexican standoff long enough? Or, will he start to drop it and squeeze the trigger, too?_

Now Dennis's jaw was beginning to tremble too, and Mox guessed it was because he was probably gritting his teeth now that neither of them were talking. Then slowly, ever so slowly, Mox saw his finger relax. He still had the gun up, braced against his shoulder, but those finger cramps must have finally hit and he'd been forced to at least ease off the trigger. It was just too bad that Mox's own back was probably blocking the view of whoever was behind him, because Mox had a feeling it wasn't Lance, it was the cavalry, probably Sefa and Marc with their shotguns, maybe they'd even managed to get Sheriff Aaron here too, That was, if Lance had been able to alert them. But he could feel those eyes on the both of them. And if Dennis wasn't being such a pussy, he'd probably sense it too, but Dennis was too busy having his world blown to bits because he'd shot his best friend and now his precious "Timmy" refused to come with him.

 _Sometimes,_ Mox thought, _The only person who can save you is yourself._ And before he could debate if this was a good idea or not, he fixed his eyes on Dennis's, locking gazes with him, willing Dennis to do nothing but look into his eyes, nowhere else.

And then he drew back his leg and kicked Dennis as hard as he could in the nuts, and dropped to the ground at the same time, in case Dennis fired it. He prayed if Dennis did fire it, that it wouldn't hit the cavalry.

As he had hoped, Dennis automatically dropped the gun where it thudded on to Mox's back as he bent over to grab himself between the legs and fell to his knees. The shotgun wasn't light and it hit that spot on the upper back that made you think for a moment that all your bones were cracking, but Mox didn't let that stop him, he rolled over which sent the gun off his back next to him, then he flopped on the gun as if it were Roman and he was pinning him.

And that's when he heard everyone clearly, including Aaron who was, yelling at the top of his lungs for Dennis to put his hands on his head.

* * *

 **Authors Notes: One more chapter.**

 **Thank you to anyone who read this. Double thanks for anyone who F/F this. Triple if you took the time to review, or send me a message. I appreciate it, a lot**


	18. Chapter 18

_Here we are, the last chapter... but there will be a sequel, I promise. Now, this is the part you can skip where I just babble on and on to hopefully make this chapter title center better than it does when I don't write this silly, useless, crap on the top. Oh? **Disclaimer**? Really? Okay. Original characters are the products of my own imagination and any resemblance to real person(s) living or dead is purely coincidental. WWE owns the rest. _

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

 **{o}**

"Please don't tell me you need to talk to Jon," Jen said, as she opened the door into the kitchen wider, to let Aaron in. "It's late, and he's in bed. The doctor gave him something to help him sleep and he's out like a light. And after today, I _reall_ y don't want to wake him."

"No, Jen, that's fine. I actually was hoping he'd already be asleep," Aaron said, as he walked into the kitchen. He was still wearing his uniform, which let Jen know he'd worked one very long day.

"Does Sarah know you're here, and have you eaten?" Jen asked, motioning towards the table, to give him permission to sit.

"Yes, I called her and let her know I'd be stopping here. And, I had a couple burritos at lunch." Aaron sat down at the table.

"That's not enough, let me get you something. I've got some beef stew I can heat up fast." Before he could answer, Jen called out, "Sefa, Aaron is here," then turned to the refrigerator.

"That sounds good," Aaron admitted. "I told Sarah I'd stop and pick something up for myself, but if it isn't a bother-"

"-It's never a bother, we're friends," Jen said, pulling a container of beef stew out of the refrigerator. She was glad to see him. He'd taken "Richard/Dennis" whatever his name was, away mid morning, and they hadn't heard a word from him since. Not that their day had been calm, by any means. Even though Jon kept saying he was fine, Jen and Sefa insisted he go to the doctor. After calling Dr. Proctor, who agreed to meet them at his office, Sefa agreed to stay behind with Marc for the sake of the Academy, but Roman and Lance both demanded to be able to go along with Jen and Jon. Jen didn't argue.

The Doctor agreed with Mox's self diagnosis that physically he was fine. But he did write a prescription for something to help him sleep and another for an anti-anxiety medication, telling Jen that the anti-anxiety was only if he showed signs that he needed it, and suggested they get in touch with Jon's talk therapist.

"Physically, he's great, not a thing wrong," Dr. Proctor explained, while Jon was getting dressed in the examining room where he couldn't hear them. "He's probably going to have a bruise on his back from the gun, but that will heal. And right now, even emotionally, he's very calm. But this has to have affected him, and the sooner he talks about it, the sooner he can work on healing."

So, they had come home and she called Charles Harvey, who was Jon's therapist, and he and Jon had spoken on the phone, alone for awhile in the den. Jen had to force herself not to listen at the door, not because she was nosy, well, okay, she _was_ nosy but she was _concerned_ nosy. After all he had been through, seeing someone shot, having a gun pointed right at him for as long as he had, how could Jon be so calm?

"He wants to see me tomorrow afternoon," Jon said, coming into the kitchen, where Jen was fixing lunch for all of them. "I can call if I need him before then, but he says he wants to see me in the office, tomorrow at one. I told him that should be fine, because I figure you want me to see him in person as soon as possible." His voice was strong and assured, as if he were comforting them. He got himself a cup of coffee in his "MOX" mug and sat down at the table. He looked over at Roman and frowned. "What are you holding?"

Roman looked down at his right hand almost as if he'd forgotten he had one, and stared at what was in it. "A-a rock," he admitted.

"I get it, Lance has Einstein, and you want a pet of your own," Jon had said with a faint grin. "But you can do better than a rock."

Lance half giggled, half snorted and even Sefa and Marc chuckled, but Roman stared at the rock as if he might have expected it to talk. "I-I grabbed this," he admitted. "When we went to find you, after Lance told us what was going on. I grabbed this, even though it was _stupid_. I mean, what good is a rock when everyone else has guns? But-but I know how to throw. I thought- I figured-" he paused, drawing in a deep breath. No one said anything, just waited for him to continue. "I figured if I saw the guy with the gun and he didn't see me, maybe I could get him with the rock… and it's stupid, I know, but I felt I had to do _something_." There was a desperate misery in Roman's voice, as if he didn't completely understand why he'd grabbed the rock, but wanted someone, Jon especially, to understand. Jen realized he had been walking around with that rock for hours, and she hadn't even asked him why. He'd switched it from hand to hand, and once he might have even put it in his pocket, but he hadn't removed it from his person.

Jon nodded as if what Roman said was easy to understand. Then he held out his hand. "Can I have it?"

Roman stared at the rock, then handed it to him.

"I'm going to keep this," Jon said, putting it on the table next to his plate.

"Why?" Roman asked, which saved everyone else in the family from asking.

"Because any time I feel like I'm alone, or that nobody cares? I'll see that and be able to tell myself that _somebody_ cared enough to arm themselves with a rock and would have used it to save me if they could," Jon said. "Because most people would have just run off." His fingers closed around the rock, and he looked over at Lance, who had started to stare down at his own hands as if he was hoping he would find a rock or something similar in his. "No, don't go there," Jon said shaking his head at Lance, "You ran and got help. And I'll never forget that, either." He looked around the table at Sefa and Marc. "And you came, ready to kill to save me if you had to. I'm not going to ask you for your guns, or ask Lance for his sneakers, but this rock can represent all of it. That I was in trouble and you risked _yourselves_ to save _me._ "

That was when Lance did start crying, but he did his best to try to hide it, not making a single sob, but tears were rolling down his face. "At least _I_ knew I might be dying when I was sick," he finally said. "I had a warning. You could have just been… _gone."_

"I know," Jon said. "But I'm not, _I'm_ fine."

* * *

The rest of the day had been quiet. Sefa had already called the local radio station and had them announcing all day that the show for tonight was cancelled. A few folks had shown up, not hearing the announcement, but a couple of the students had volunteered, and told them the news. The reason given was "Family emergency," which was certainly no lie.

* * *

Jen had the beef stew heating in a pan over the stove, and was making Aaron a sandwich when Sefa came in the kitchen. He and Aaron exchanged greetings, then Sefa asked him if he wanted some coffee or iced tea.

"Coffee sounds great," Aaron said.

Sefa started a fresh pot, and got out the sugar and cream. By the time Jen was putting a bowl of beef stew and a chicken salad sandwich down for Aaron, both he and Sefa were drinking coffee. Jen helped herself to a cup as well, then sat down to join them.

"I hope you don't mind if I talk while I eat," Aaron said, before taking a bite of the stew.

"Not at all," Sefa said. "We're curious, what happens next?"

"Well, he's been transferred to the County jail," Aaron said. "And he'll be arraigned on Monday. But, we had a very long chat on the way there. Where I reminded him several times that there were three witnesses that saw him shoot his friend. Whose name was Simon Green, by the way."

Sefa and Jen exchanged looks. Aaron had assumed that Sefa and Marc had both seen Simon getting shot and they had done nothing to discourage him from thinking that. They wanted to protect Jon any way they could, and if Jon was the only person who actually saw the shooting, he would _have_ to testify. "Uh, what did he say to that?" Sefa asked.

"He didn't dispute that," Aaron said. "And he told me several times after I'd read him his rights that he he had killed Simon, to save Timmy. To be honest? I don't know if this is a recent development, but I don't think Dennis McConnell is playing with a full deck."

"Do you think he'll get off on an insanity plea?" Jen asked, immediately alarmed.

Aaron shook his head. "Getting off for reasons of insanity is difficult. Just being mentally ill doesn't give you a license to kill, you have to prove your mental illness makes you unable to tell you the difference between right and wrong. And Dennis was showing a _ton_ of regret for his actions. Both before and after his booking. He could try to get off on the idea that at that moment, Simon drove him temporarily insane so he felt he had to shoot him, possibly to save Mox, but I don't think that's going to work with a judge, even if he gets the best lawyer in the world, which I don't know if he can afford. He didn't ask to call a lawyer, so I think he's going to wait to get one appointed by the courts. But I'm pretty sure no matter what lawyer he gets, they are going to insist on entering a plea of 'not guilty' at the arraignment. It's almost mandatory in murder case and most times judges refuse to even take a guilty plea in a murder arraignment."

"But he _is_ guilty," Sefa protested. "He's even been _saying_ he's guilty! It's open and shut, he can't pretend he isn't!"

"Pleading not guilty is not saying he's innocent," Aaron explained. "He might have a chance to plead guilty later, but I arrested him for Felony murder, which is legally as bad as first degree murder."

"What's the difference?" Jen asked.

"Felony murder is when someone is killed while another is committing a certain crime. Like kidnapping, drug dealing, breaking and entering, so on and so forth. If someone breaks into your house, and they shoot you, then they're up for felony murder because the law sees it as the person was ready to kill to commit the crime."

"But both men were in on this whole thing together," Sefa reminded him.

"That doesn't matter," Aaron said, taking a sip of coffee. "What matters is that someone committing a crime, killed someone else while doing it. The theory is that by doing the crime, they were also willing to kill to do it. But, there is a chance that even though it can't be disproved that Dennis killed Simon, the lawyer might try to prove that it wasn't felony murder, that it was manslaughter or even involuntary manslaughter. I mean, unless Mox comes forward, it's going to be hard to get felony murder to stick. Because what crime were they committing?"

"How could he say that?" Jen asked indignantly. "He _shot_ the guy! There was nothing accidental about it! It's flat out _murder!"_

Aaron shrugged. "He could say that Simon left him no choice, that he had to kill Simon to save Mox, which was what he kept telling me. A lawyer could use that to say that it was justified homicide. Or, involuntary manslaughter. Dennis is guilty as hell and any lawyer worth is weight will realize that and won't even bother to try to get him off completely, they'll want to plead down the charges."

"How far down?" Sefa asked. "I don't want to see him out on the streets again. Hell, I'd like to see him fry. Not really because he killed that other son-of-a-bitch, but for what they did to Mox. The problem is, that if we try to get him for what he did to Mox for all those years, we have to drag Mox through it, don't we?"

Aaron sighed and nodded. "Another reason why felony murder might not stick. Because the only felony being committed was kidnapping and unless Mox comes forward and is willing to testify, how do we prove it wasn't just a case of Simon and Dennis were walking in the woods, and happened to come across Mox. That's what his defense is going to argue. And, if Mox comes forward and says they were going to kidnap him, that's going to lead to an awful lot of 'why?' and the whole story is going to have to come out."

"That's why we were hoping this would just end it," Jen admitted. "Just take him off the streets forever without having to drag Jon into any of this… mess."

"I think it will," Aaron said. "The thing is though, that to avoid a trial, the DA is going to have to be willing to take the death penalty off the table and go with the idea that if he pleads guilty, he'll get life in prison."

"Without parole?" Jen asked.

Aaron shrugged. "That's what I'm going to suggest." He paused to take a bite of his sandwich and a sip of coffee. Jen and Sefa watched him, but said nothing, waiting for him to speak. "If he pleads out for life without parole, he'll probably end up in gen pop."

"Gen pop?" Jen asked.

"General population," Aaron said. He looked from Jen to Sefa, "In our little talk on the way to County, we discussed that. And… I reminded him that gen pop could be very… bad for him if he wasn't a good boy."

"Why would gen pop be bad?" Jen asked.

"Because in prison, nobody is likely to give a shit if he's in jail for murdering his best friend. Hell, he'll have plenty of company that's done the same thing. But, if it's discovered that the reason why he killed his best friend was over a kid they'd kidnapped back when he was five or six, and raped and tortured that kid? Well, let's just say there are plenty of people in gen pop who are more than happy to dispatch a pedophile. If he's put in jail for _being_ a pedophile, they'll probably put him in isolation. Which is no ball of fun either. Hours seem like days in isolation."

Jen had heard that before, about how among what most would call the worst of society, people who abused children, especially sexually, were considered to be the absolute lowest of the low. It was one of the few things that made her think that there was _some_ decency in just about everyone.

"So, it's in his best interests _not_ to have this go to trial," Sefa said. "Because if it goes to trial, then it's all going to come out about him kidnapping Mox and abusing him, and that could put him in serious trouble in prison."

"Yeah," Aaron admitted. "But, how is Mox going to feel about this? He has the right to see Dennis punished too, for the crimes done to him. If we just let him plead down from murder, he'll be getting away with… everything else."

"We'll talk to him in the morning," Sefa said. "But I have a feeling all that is going to matter to Mox is that Ri-I mean, Dennis, is not going to be able to hurt anyone else, ever again."

Aaron nodded. "Good. And I'm going to need all of you to come down and give a statement tomorrow or Monday. Mox too."

"Even Lance?" Jen asked.

"Even Lance. He's the one that went to get help." Aaron gave Jen a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Jen, he's not in any trouble and you and Sefa will be able to be with him the entire time as his parents. In fact, you can be there when everyone but Marc gives their statement. You're Mox's legal guardian, so you can be there when he gives his statement. His social worker will be there with him, too."

Jen nodded, then studied Aaron. He'd eaten his sandwich and most of the stew. The coffee had done its job, and he'd perked up a bit, but there was something in his expression that said he still had something on his mind, something that he wasn't sure they wanted to hear. "Aaron, what's going on?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral. "There's something you aren't telling us."

"As I said, we had some time to talk when I drove him to county," Aaron said. "And, he said a lot of things, and I asked a few questions." He paused and drew in a deep breath. "He gave me the name Mox was born with. _And_ where he and Simon grabbed him."

Part of Jen had been preparing for this since they first met Jon, and she knew Sefa had been too, but the longer time had gone on without this information coming to light, the easier it had become to pretend the day never would come, or Jon's real identity wouldn't be discovered until he was eighteen, when there was really nothing that could be done about it. But here it was, Jon had only been sixteen a few months and the truth had been discovered. She bit her lip, unable to speak.

Sefa asked for both of them. "So, what did he say?"

Aaron's gaze alternated between the two of them. "He told me they grabbed the kid outside of an Elementary school in Cincinnati Ohio. And that his name is Dean Ambrose."

 _Dean Ambrose_ , Jen thought, and realized that it might be his name, but she would never be able to think of him as that. To her, he would always be Jon "call me Mox" Moxley. She felt her heart thudding in her chest, because she knew the next question Sefa would ask for the both of them, but the look on Aaron's face already told her the answer.

"You had someone run the name through the database." Sefa didn't ask, he stated.

Aaron nodded again. "Patrick ran it, and… yeah, there was a hit. Someone has been looking for him for a very long time."

The End.

* * *

 **Author's** ** Notes: Yes, cliffhanger ending, I admit it. But there is a sequel on the way, that will be called _Won't Get Fooled Again._ It picks up right where this ends. This story was originally going to be a lot longer, but I realized I really needed to split it. It's roughed out, so again, even if something happens and I have to disappear, I will at least post the roughed version.**

 **So, thanks for taking this part of the journey with me, and I hope you'll be sticking around for the next.**

 **Peace Out  
Willow**


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